Lady of the Lake
by Colubrina
Summary: Hermione and Draco team up after the war to overthrow the Order and take over wizarding Britain. "I don't even especially mind belonging to you most of the time," he closes his eyes and just breathes for a bit, savoring not being in pain. Finally he adds, "Just… try to take better care of your toys." Dark Dramione.
1. Chapter 1

It was the homework that got her, all the homework she'd done and proofread for years. Well, that and that she'd made the plans, done the research, found the spells and once it was all over she'd somehow become the also ran. She was the sidekick to the buddy picture of Harry and Ron, the chosen one and his best friend. It was infuriating. She'd spent months thinking about how everything had been bungled after the war, how perfectly good power vacuums had been thrown away for money and fame. How it wasn't even _her_ money and fame. She could run things far better. Other people really couldn't be trusted to make decisions.

For example, why would you even _call_ yourself the "Dark Lord"? Honestly, if you wanted to basically announce to the world "I am up to no good" that was a darn good way to do it but for a man who _really_ wanted to take over it was a stupid way to go about it. A woman who _really_ wanted _real _power would be smart enough to have a title like "Assistant Deputy Researcher of Uninteresting Artifact Misuse and Runic Translations"; she'd go about acquiring minions and power and influence until it was too bloody late for anyone to do anything about it. You can't mount a noble force to take down an Assistant Deputy of Research; you'd just look silly.

She tapped her fingers on the table, watching Harry and Ron hold court at the bar. Neither of them glanced her way; she doubted they even knew she was here, sitting in the shadows, watching them bathe in their glory.

"Does it ever just chafe your arse, Granger?"

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

"I'm just enjoying watching the show. Kicked you to the curb, did they? Third wheel much?" He throws back a drink, not, she's guessing, his first, and tosses today's paper at her; it's another glowing bit of selective hagiography. Harry and Ron beam at the camera on the front page, arms around each other. "Learn More About the Boy Heroes Who Saved Wizarding Britain"

Sometimes the little trick pony show makes her want to vomit.

She turns to actually look at the boy – the man – who's slid into the chair across from her. He's still pretty, with that blond hair and that ridiculous bone structure. He's got a mean look in his eye but he's clearly directing it at the bar, not at her. She, she suspects, is meant to be his audience so he can rant about how much he hates Potter and Weasley. She cuts him off.

"I opted not to participate in the song and dance routine and was promptly written out of the narrative. I didn't suffer and sacrifice to whitewash this administration. So, yeah Malfoy, you can call it kicked to the curb if you want to. Wanker." She downs her shot. "I just can't believe after everything the Ministry did to Harry he'd sign up for this little bread and circus crap. I thought we were going to reform…"

"...everything?" The blond snorts. "You were going to make everything better? Make it all fair and just and shit like that. I'm surprised you were that stupidly naïve. I always gave you the credit for being the brains in that little operation. My bad, I guess." He sighs. "Don't you ever even _want_ credit for everything you did?"

She bites the inside of her cheek. "I did, when I thought that credit would translate into power, that I would be able to…"

"…reform everything?"

"Yeah." She tapped on the paper, poking Ron in his grinning head. The picture flinched away from her finger and she began to hit it harder and harder until both images were cowering in the corner of the frame. Draco Malfoy watches her, clearly fascinated. "I don't think I care much about reform anymore, though. I think I might become an assistant researcher. The Assistant Deputy Researcher of Uninteresting Artifact Misuse and Runic Translations, to be precise. I think I might become so dull and forgettable that no one spares me a second glance."

"Is this a purloined letter kind of thing, or are you actually planning to fade away into an obscure and tedious job?"

"What do you think?"

"I think you begin to interest me," he looks steadily at her, and then throws some money on the table. "Would you care to join me for another drink away from the vulgar crowd?

"I don't think I'll be going anywhere private with you. Forgive my cold cynicism in not trusting a man who tried to murder his school headmaster."

"It was a stupid assignment."

"I beg your pardon." Not that she didn't agree with him, but she was interested in his reasons.

He shrugs and slouches back in the seat, eyes on the bar again. "Terrorism isn't really an effective way to stage a coup. If he'd actually marched into the Ministry, announced he was in charge, and distributed some form of bread and circuses to appease the masses, along with a tax cut, that might have worked. Better still to have a figurehead in place and control things from the shadows. But that fool wasn't interested in the mundane details of power, he just liked violence. He was like a toddler flailing about, knocking things over. No sense of strategy at all."

"And how," she asks, "would you have done it?"

He looks at her and smirks. "Not quite the idle question, is it?" A shrug. "I'd do away with the identifying tattooing and creepy fireworks. I'd keep a low profile – Assistant Deputy Researcher, I think you suggested. I'd slowly collect a following whose personal loyalty was unquestioned and avoid the temptation to torture them at will. It's fine for people to fear you, but to fear you're an unpredictable madman, well, I've noticed that that doesn't lend itself to success. I'd place my people in positions of increasing importance in government while manipulating public opinion. The election that made me Minister would be the last one anyone would participate in, and they'd cheer me for stripping them of their franchise. Propaganda is a far stronger tool than violence. Hail Caesar." He raises his glass to her in a mock toast.

"And why haven't you put this excellent plan into place?"

"'Malfoy' isn't really a name that inspires people these days. I'm just a tad despised. That's quite a bit to work against. There isn't anyone left in pureblood society that really inspires the plebian masses. You could do it." He looks at her. "Except for the mudblood problem. The war heroine thing would work in your favor, especially since you've been so brutally shoved out into the cold by the current party in power; the old, entrenched families don't really care for Potter. But blood status prejudice is just too much to overcome. Pity, really."

She reaches across the table and picks up his wand. It's such a gross violation etiquette, so unheard of, that he tries to grab it back instantly and she holds it out of his reach.

"Merlin, Granger, you can't just go about taking people's wands. What's wrong with you?"

"You lay out a plan for quiet revolution and then you complain I take your wand? Why shouldn't I summon an auror and turn you in right now?" She's running her fingers along the shaft of the wood and has tipped her head to the side. He's mesmerized by the sight of her hands, can almost feel them on his skin as she moves them over his wand.

"Because," he finally gasps when she stops moving her fingers and points his own wand at him, "Because you want to do it, because you're sitting here contemplating revenge on the people who dismissed you, on taking over and doing things properly. Because you're smart enough but you're still almost totally transparent and I can read every thought you have as it flits across your face. Because – for Merlin's sake would you stop pointing that at me and give it back – you'd make a hell of a Dark Lady and you're clever enough not to turn down my help if I'm offering it."

"Not Merlin, Malfoy," she breathes. "Nimue." She gestures with his wand towards the bar and it take all of his control not to snatch it back from her. "They're Merlin. And I'm going to lock them up in a tree. Metaphorically speaking, of course."

He puts his hand out, a silent plea for the return of his wand, and she sets it in his palm, leaving her hand on his and he feels his pulse surge wildly in his veins.

"It's true." Her hand is still across his but she's speaking in an almost totally unconcerned voice, as if she weren't acknowledging plans of insurrection, as if she weren't accepting his help. His, let's be honest, drunken offer of fealty. "The most effective route to power would be divide, or unite, people around an already existing concern. Unfortunately the only really contentious issue in wizard society is the blood status thing and, as you pointed out, I'm not exactly positioned to take advantage of that one."

"What if you were pure-blood?"

"What if galleons rained down from the sky?"

"No. I'm being wholly serious. If you were widely believed to be a pure-blood you could do it."

"And how, exactly, would I make people believe something so patently false?"

"Rumors."

"What?"

"Well, you can't just come out and announce you aren't a mudblood. No one would believe you, and, besides, such a lack of finesse is pathetic. No. We start a rumor that you have to be a pureblood. Just a couple of whispers in the right place, has to be a pureblood, do you really think a mudblood would be so powerful, so quick to pick up magic. Propaganda." He shrugs, but doesn't pull his hand away from under hers. "People's innate prejudices will do the rest. It would help if we were a couple. No one who knows me would think I'd date a mudblood."

"And when someone flat out asks me," she muses, "I'll just deny it."

"Better yet, don't quite deny it. 'I have the greatest respect for the people who raised me and would never deny them that way.'" He runs his tongue around his lips. "The pure-blood obsession with family loyalty will end up working to your advantage too. 'The girl is so loyal she won't even denounce her adoptive parents. Blood will out, no muggle-born would ever be that faithful' and so on."

"You have begun, Draco Malfoy, to interest _me_." She takes her hand away and he slips his wand back into a pocket. "I think I will take you up on that drink, if the offer still stands. We can talk about how I will ascertain whether I can trust you."

He stands and offers her his arm, with the full formality he'd give to a woman at a pureblood gathering. "My lady?"

"Yes," she said. "I am."

.

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. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N: Well, this fell out of my brain. I don't want to even try to update it as quickly as I'm working through The Die. However, I'd love to know if you think it's worth pursuing. Plus, of course, I don't have a beta reader so please let me know issues you see if you are so inclined. You know how it is when you edit your own work – you start to see the comma where it should be instead of where it is.**

**On the off chance you didn't read too much Arthuriana in your youth, Nimue is Merlin's student and she betrays him and magically traps him in a tree. She also is the Lady of the Lake (Monty Python's 'watery tart') who gives Arthur his sword in some versions of the legends. (Actual advice in college: don't do a PhD on Arthurian Romance because you'll never finish.)**


	2. Chapter 2 - Interesting Bedfellows

Back at his flat, he holds out a sealed bottle of veritaserum and a bottle of antidote. "That," she says, "is a controlled substance. Illegal to have, illegal to administer."

He laughs at her. "You'd rather not be involved with an illegal substance? You want to talk about a staging a coup and installing yourself as the Dark Lady and you're worried about violating substance abuse regulations?"

She meets his eyes and he's amused by how irritated she looks as she takes the vials. "Get the drinks."

He walks to the cabinet, pulls out two glasses and a bottle of scotch. "Muggle whiskey?" she asks.

"I can't believe you don't know I'm a snob, Granger. I don't really care where something came from as long as it's the best." He pours the drinks, sets them on the table in front of her and waits as she opens the potion, adds three drops to each glass. He looks at her, surprised.

"I'm sure you have some things you'd like to ask me; trust here is going to have to go both ways. Assuming, of course, I don't obliviate you after you drink that and start talking."

He's leaning up against the wall when he sips his drink, then takes a large swallow and waits for the drug to kick in. She's too close, right at the edge of his personal space and he can tell she's actually enjoying that he has to consciously try not to move. "Explain why I should stay, twitchy boy.

He can feel an overwhelming, drugged urge to talk about everything, and struggles to stay focused. It's one of the problems with truth serums; people tend to babble on incoherently without carefully directed questions. "I can help you. I can help you turn yourself into a power. I can – "

"Yes." She reaches up and puts her hand over his mouth and he's shocked into silence. "I'm sure you can do a lot of things. I'm sure you'd be very, very useful. I'm just not sure why you would want to be useful to me or whether I could trust you." She takes her hand away. "Speak."

He recognizes the permission - no, the command - and his gut clenches. He's had a lot of commands in his life, some delivered as careless little asides, some delivered at the point of a wand. Plenty of them had ended in pain. "I hate – really hate - Harry Potter and his little sycophants. He nearly killed me in school and got off with detentions because he was the specialist of special snowflakes. But, more, the Order of the Phoenix is a bunch of thieving, worthless scum who've enriched themselves in the name of reparations. The Dark Lord - "

She cuts him off. "Voldemort. Call him Voldemort. Or Riddle, if his pretentious, made-up name is too much."

"As my Lady wishes," he raises his glass towards her, half mocking, then takes another swallow. "Riddle was a psychopath who needed cutting down like a mad dog. No argument from me there. The man lived in my house, took my father's wand, threatened my mother. I was quite familiar with his horror show. But your little Phoenix club has profited from that war to an obscene extent. It wasn't enough to throw the surviving conspirators into prison, they looted enough to cover all war expenses and then some; then a lot of 'some'."

She nods.

"Your Order, or, excuse me, the Ministry, has confiscated land, houses, businesses and passed them out to their family members and friends. It's patronage on a far wider scale than any corrupt pureblood ever dreamed. And you know what I can do about it? Nothing. I can't help my friends, my mother, myself. I can't join the government, become some bureaucrat, and get things changed. I can't pull strings from behind the scenes like my father did. It wouldn't work. Not for me. All I can do is go to bars and get drunk and watch your best friends perform, distracting the masses like trained bears, lapping up the milk and honey." He's angry now, and not paying attention to the words as they fall out of his mouth. "Did the Weasel ever lap at your milk and honey, Granger? Is that why you hate him so much now?"

She slaps him. Hard. He grabs her wrist, an automatic reflex, and looks at her; it's pain at her hands, certainly, but a slap. Not the torture his aunt would have inflicted. Had inflicted. They stare at each other for a while. He looks away first, letting her wrist go.

"Stick to the topic at hand, which is whether I can trust you to help me plan an insurrection," she finally spits out, rubbing where he'd grabbed her. "Not inquiries into my love life."

"I'm sorry," he mutters.

"They're not my phoenixes, you know."

"I know." He pauses, bitterly. "Look, you have the populist appeal. They fucked up when they removed you from their little song and dance, they made a mistake and it's one I can exploit. We can exploit. I can build a force supporting _Hermione Granger_ in a way I could never do for myself. You're the bastard prince the country can rally behind. Me? I'm just the advisor no one likes. I can get you entry into the pureblood elites. I can structure a plot, lay rumors, design propaganda. But any narrative centering around a former Death Eater just won't inspire shopkeepers and hedge witches to oust those Phoenix bastards. I can tell you all about currency debasement and the growing risk of hyperinflation, but no one joins an insurrection because they are upset about international trade imbalances. The beautiful, betrayed princess promising them purification and hope and glory? Oh, for that they'll turn out. I can get them flocking to your banner in droves."

"So. I get your contacts, your support, your skills. You get a rallying point." She frowns. "You're pretty well keyed into what's going on politically and economically. And that you hate Harry, that I believe. That you like power, well I'd buy that one even without the truth serum. I've known you long enough to have deduced _that_. But, while I'm sure you can sell your little fairy tale about my mysterious pureblood ancestry to your peers, can you – you - handle a mudblood Dark Lady? You hate me, you hate my blood, you hate my kind. My dirty, filthy, worthless kind."

She lifts her hand and, with one finger, starts tracing the lines of his face. He knows she's taunting him but, still, at her touch he feels his pulse leap in his throat. It undoes him; the drugs have already stripped him, laid him out for her. He's hasn't anything he can use to brace himself against this simple contact. He hasn't, after all, had a lot of gentleness in his life and has no practice in resisting it. He stares at her, his grey eyes wide.

"I hate them because they're dangerous," he whispers as she continues to trace the planes of his face: forehead, cheekbone, jaw, mouth. "Every one of them is a risk to the rest of us, a risk that some muggle friend or family will see them do a little magic and that the witch hunts will start again."

"What about me?"

"You?" He laughs hoarsely, still mesmerized by her tracing fingers. "You're the exception. Little miss perfect, brightest witch of her generation. You'd obliviate anyone you needed to. The only risk we have from you is that you'll take over. Hermione." It's probably the first time he's used her given name, ever, and her fingers tense, shocked, on his skin. "Why do you want to do this, truly? If you lose, you'll die. It's a hell of a gamble."

"Second thoughts, Malfoy?"

He turns his face so he's half hidden in her hand, his hair falling into his eyes. "No. I've already thrown my lot right into your hand. I am, as they say, at your disposal. If you'll have me."

She shrugs. "I can do it better, you know. I can't stand to see things done badly. I've spent my life playing for high stakes and in the end I got nothing even though we won; this time I'll play, win, and take the prize for myself. In the end, I want to do it, plan to do it, because I can, so why shouldn't I?

"You hate me for that, don't you?" she continues, her hand still resting lightly on his face, under the curtain of his hair. "That I can do this thing and you, for all your generations of exquisite breeding, can't. Not without me."

"A little, yes. But you need me too, Princess."

"A little, yes."

He mockingly kisses her fingers then pulls his head away from her hand. "Enough. Are you going to take me, or just strip my mind and leave?"

She pours half the antidote into his drink, sips from her own. "Your turn to play twenty questions," is all she says.

He swallows and studies her. She's utterly relaxed, watching him back with a serious, expression, shuttered for once. She nods at him, letting him know when she can feel the drugs take effect. He's not sure what to make of this sense of fair play, that part of this game is new to him.

"Do you trust me?" he simply asks.

"Yes," she says, quietly. "About the politics I do. That you'd prefer me, with you as a power behind the throne, to the current set up, yes. I still don't like you but I wouldn't mind having you at my disposal, as you put it. Having the beautiful and brilliant Draco Malfoy willingly under my thumb? I think I would like that quite a lot."

He flinches at that. It is what he's offered, what he's offering, but hearing it put so plainly by someone drugged into truth is still rough. "You'll disband the Order, remove them from power? Let me help you?"

She nods. "That, surely."

He takes the antidote from her, pours the rest of it into her glass. "That's all I care about."

"Well," she drinks. "Conspiracy makes for interesting bedfellows." He raises his eyebrows and she snorts. "I didn't mean it literally, don't get your hopes up."

"You think I frequently fantasize about bedding women I hate a little? Who don't like me either?"

"I try not to think about what you fantasize about."

"Right now, food." Also, a little time to recuperate from their lacerating, drugged conversation would not be amiss, he thinks. A quick rummage in the flat's small kitchen later and he's produced two sandwiches and a package of crisps. "My first act of service to the future Dark Lady, if you'll accept it: dinner."

She looks at the sandwiches.

"Oh, for the love of… you don't think I'm trying to poison you, do you?"

She snorts and takes a sandwich, balancing the plate on her knees. She'd settled into an armchair while he was busy, relaxing enough to sit, finally. "I just have trouble picturing Draco Malfoy, elitist snob, remembering to pick up bread and cheese at the grocer."

"Yeah, well, I'm more adaptable than you'd think. Look who I'm eating with." He sits at the table and takes a bite. "And I do get the good cheese and the artisan bread."

"Of course you do."

When he finishes his sandwich, he sets the plate aside and asks, "Do you want to hear what I think we should do first?" She's still eating but she nods. "First I think you should get that utterly boring job at the Ministry. It will give you access to the building and once you're in you can calmly imperious your way to anything we'll need as time goes on; long term you're going to need to quit in some kind of dramatic show down, right before you run for Minister, but first you need to get in."

"I can do that."

"I'll start getting the rumors planted that you're pureblood so we can start bringing in people who'd never follow a mudbood." She throws him a look and he shakes his head. "You have to become inured to the word and exploit the blood prejudice. Riddle did, and it worked for him, and everyone knew he was nuts. People think you're brilliant, but you still need a hook to pull people in, a simple cause they can get riled about. Be less obvious about it so the ordinary people aren't scared off by thought of a second group of Death Eaters, but the core of your supporters are going to have to be purebloods; it's where the influence is. They'll be looking for clues that you support traditional blood purity ideals and without that they'll never join." She slowly nods and he takes a deep breath. "And we need to start dating."

"Remind me why?" She hands him the plate and he moves it to the table.

"Because I'm an elitist arsehole who would never date a filthy mudblood," he states baldly. "And it will explain why we're together a lot of the time, which we'll have to be to handle the planning. And then I can introduce you to my mother, who is also a blood purist, and once she accepts you as some kind of mysteriously orphaned pureblood people will start paying attention and we can begin recruiting your inner circle." He pauses. "Also because I'm beautiful and you want me under your thumb."

"Are you going to be able to stomach dating a 'filthy mudblood'? If it doesn't look realistic - "

"I can manage," he says flatly. "Can you?"

She looks at him, and slowly her face softens into a warm smile. She stands up and leans in towards him, brushes her nose against his, all mischievous adoration, then her mouth is on his and her lips are parted just a little and then, just as he raises his hands to pull her closer, to really kiss her, she leans back and her eyes are cold again. "I'm pretty sure I can, yes. I can do hard things. Can you?"

He's shocked by how good an actress she is, and a little shaken he's wishing that kiss hadn't been wholly feigned. That's an unnecessary complication. "You're good."

"I should hope so." She sits back down pulls her feet up under her on the chair. "We're planning to overthrow a government, after all. Just coming out and telling people they're incompetent so we're taking over probably isn't going to work." She's finger-combing out her curls as she leans into the side of the chair; she's obviously tired but still talking. "Once you're in there's no going back. You've had one fairly unpleasant dark lord experience. Are you really so eager to try again?"

He shakes his head and exhales. "I wouldn't call it eager. Let's go with 'willing.'" Maybe he is a fool; bravery has never been his forte and putting all his choices, all his freedom, in palm of her hand, her rash, brilliant, Gryffindor hand, is surely a form of madness. But, oh Merlin, she's right. She can do it. And he wants it done, wants the Order destroyed. "A couple of things. You're going to have to dress differently. And - "

"What's wrong with how I dress."

"You need to dress the role. Dark colors, simple, fitted. Nothing over the top, but start sending signals you aren't the bushy-haired extra Weasley any more." She's narrowing her eyes and before she can explode with outraged feminine vanity he throws his hands up. "Look, clothes are costumes. Dress to at least imply you're a dark, pureblood witch, okay? I don't care what ratty monstrosities you wear in the privacy of your own flat but in public look the part. If you can kiss me you can bloody well wear some black wrap dress instead of," he looks at what she's got on and cringes, "that. And heels."

"I hate heels."

"I don't care. Heels signal power. Wear them."

There a long, dangerous pause and he wonders if he's gone too far, given unasked for advice too freely. "You'd better plan on doing a lot of foot massage."

He stifles his smile. She's taking the suggestion; she's actually listening to him. "We all have to sacrifice for the cause." He sighs. The other thing he needs to bring up is even less pleasant than telling her she dresses badly. "Do you know legilimency?"

"No."

"You should learn it. Occlumency too. The best way to start requires a willing partner. Which would seem to be lucky, lucky me. That we're both a little drunk and tired, well that probably won't hurt. Our resistance is down. It can be – unpleasant - if you fight it." He moves to sit on the floor in front of her and looks up. "Physical contact helps too." He holds out his hands. Again, he feels his pulse leap at her touch and swears internally; if this works, this unwanted, unexpected attraction will be laid wholly bare to her. "Okay, I'm going to make eye contact and you should try to drift into my head. I generally picture sorting through people's closets to access their feelings but different people use different imagery. Don't expect things to be totally clear. Think, impressionist paintings rather than photo realism." He braces himself then, waiting for her to start, stiffening against remembered violation. Having someone in his head always makes him feel helpless, has always hurt. After the Dark… after Riddle and his aunt he'd sworn he'd never do this again, that no one could ever make him this vulnerable again.

She's watching him, seeing him. "You hate this," she murmurs.

"It's very, - " he pauses. "It's more intimate than sex. And I didn't learn it from someone especially kind."

"You don't have to do this now. We'll do it later." She, runs her thumbs over his palms, then drops his hands.

He's ashamed of how relieved he feels, how grateful for even a short reprieve. But still, "You need to know this," he mutters. "It's practically in the Dark Leader handbook."

"Not today, Malfoy." She's shaking her head. "Get me a book, let me research. I'm not rambling about in your thoughts totally unprepared. And, truly, tonight's not good anyway; I'm tired, we're both of us a little drunk, and, more, you're terrified." Her lips curve up in a smile he involuntarily thinks of as 'entrancing'. "While it's nice that you're afraid of me, maybe terrified is a bit much. You are, after all, my leader of plots and creator of plans and distributor of propaganda as well as my maker of sandwiches. You won't be very effective crippled with fear. You might forget the mustard or buy inferior cheese or something."

"As the Lady pleases." This time there's no mockery. He looks down, leans up against the side of the chair, not touching her.

"You're much better at this subservient thing than I would have expected."

"I'm probably a tad woozy from the booze and drugs. Don't worry, I'll be back to my usual self tomorrow." She's running her fingers through his hair, twirling a lock around her finger. He can't help picturing it as a leash connecting them and he closes his eyes and shudders. "You're better at the Dark Lady thing than I would have expected."

She's still playing with his hair. "I'm naturally bossy."

"'Snot just that." But he doesn't elaborate and she doesn't ask. She probably doesn't need to. After all, she's already got him sitting, head bent, at her feet.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N. Thank you to everyone who read that first chapter and encouraged me to keep going; I hope the second one measures up. Many, many thanks to my reviewers; your words make my day, really and truly: Reviewer D, Sasha404, NightshadePrincess, Giraffes.1, louisethelibrarian, nikki98, Guest, Lady Mariel, LadiePhoeniz007, . **


	3. Chapter 3 - The First Date

_I got the job. Congratulate me._

_. . . . . . . . . . _

_I'll pick you up and take you out to celebrate Saturday. Remember what I said about the clothes._

_. . . . . . . . . ._

_You're a prick. I know how to dress._

_. . . . . . . . . ._

Apparently she does. When he arrives at her flat, making a mental note to have her move in with him as soon as possible so he never has to go to this neighborhood again, she's dressed and ready to go, right down to the high heels.

"Do you have any idea," she greets him, "how hard it is to walk in heels on cobblestones? If I don't turn an ankle it will be a bloody miracle."

The dress she's found fits her, suits her. It's stark and subtle and elegant. A sleek black column starts high on her neck and slides down curves, ending below her knees. She's pulled her hair up into a tight series of braids crossing her head like snakes sunning themselves. He makes a spinning gesture with his finger and she turns in front of him. "Nice," he finally says. It's an understatement. It's more than nice, and she may not like the heels, but she certainly knows how to move in them.

"Are you sure?" He stares at her in disbelief but she's being wholly serious. "Molly always wore things with flounces and layers, said that was the prettiest way to dress up; my own mother was more of a jumpers and sensible shoes kind of woman. Are you sure this works? Ron always…"

He cuts her off. "What Ron Weasley knows about women is how to find the cheapest slag in any bar. Do me a considerable favor and never, ever use his opinion as a guide for clothing, or behavior, or anything else. And his mother was – is – a dumpy old bat who needs to use layers to hide what birthing seven brats and overindulging in bread and potatoes will do to a body. Not, I assure you, a problem you have." He walks around her. "At all." Coming back around, he puts a finger under her chin and tilts it up. "How much ogling am I permitted to do, anyway?"

"What would you do if our little romantic façade were real?"

He backs up and looks at her. Kiss you, he thinks. Ravish you until all that bound hair fell down around your face and you were whimpering my name, dinner reservations be damned. No fool, however, he merely says, "Probably not have had to inspect you to ensure you were presentable; girls who wear jumpers and sensible shoes aren't really my type." He tosses her a package. "I'd have given you this with a little more fanfare."

She looks at it.

"It's not going to open itself, Granger."

"We're dating. We're probably on a first name basis." But she's pulling the paper off the box and pulling out his little present.

"I figured you probably didn't have any dark witch accessories lying around. Hermione." She slips the bracelet on and a plain silver snake wraps around her wrist three times, spiraling up to a pair of sparkling black eyes. "It completes the dress."

"Thank you. It's very - " she pauses. "Reptilian."

Well. He'd hoped for a little more enthusiasm; it's not every day he gives a woman jewelry, much less quality jewelry. "It's also a piece that flashes a traditional symbol without looking like I looted my grandmother's jewelry box or, worse, some cheap shop catering to teenagers with neither taste nor money. Try to make sure it gets in the photo the reporter takes tonight."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound - it's just…" she's stammering and he's glad she feels awkward after her snippy little reptilian comment. She may be brilliant, she may be the face of their new, dark age, but he can still throw her off balance.

"You're a dark witch, remember? Planning to recruit other dark witches by convincing them you're a closet pureblood so you can collect supporters and stage a coup? I've planned an elaborate evening with dinner and an accidental run-in with a reporter so we can get in the society pages as a romantic item of note and make people ask, 'why would such a blood purist arsehole date a mudblood?' Try to keep up." Mockery saturates his words.

"Don't push your luck, Malfoy."

"Draco."

"What?

"First name basis, remember?"

She sets the empty box down, oh so very carefully, on a table. "I suppose I should consider myself honored you've chosen to gift me such a lovely trinket. Thank you for your considerate present. I'll make sure the right people see it." She drops a faux curtsey, somewhat hindered by the cut of the dress, and he smiles coolly at her and if his blood begins to race a bit, well, he gives no sign but just watches her as she goes on.

"I've dressed the way you asked, right down to the miserable shoes. I'm wearing your bracelet. Let's go to our little masquerade before you goad me into losing my composure." She pauses. "Tell me about the reporter. How did you manage that?"

"Ah, that is really more happenstance than plotting, I have to admit. After dinner, I thought I'd take you for a walk down the street to get some ice cream. There's a book signing tonight and your best friends will be there, which means the press will be there, which means outing our little romance will be fairly easy. If we're really lucky, one of them will punch me and you can hover over me looking concerned and vulnerable."

"Casting them as violent and irrational?"

"Is that a problem?"

She snorts. "Accurate enough that one would think you'd been a part of our golden circle. Getting Ron, at least, to overreact to you shouldn't be hard. I'm sure the idea that I'm dating you will short circuit what little rational thought he has left after these last few years of non-stop adulation."

He opens his mouth and she cuts him off. "No, I'm not talking about it, so don't ask."

He can't help but wonder what severed their friendship. He'd endured years of their ridiculous group, mocked them relentlessly, hated them. Her crush on the idiot redhead had been open knowledge. Not even a war had been able to break them up but something about the aftermath had, and had viciously enough that she was still angry. Maybe Weasley just liked them dumb, the worthless prick. His loss, Draco thinks to himself, my gain. Our gain, he corrects himself. Our side's gain. Arm extended, he just says, "So, milady, off to dinner?"

"Don't call me that in public." She takes his arm, melts into him and the game is on.

"Never accuse me of being so obvious, Hermione. It wounds me."

. . . . . . . . . .

Dinner is pleasant, if uneventful. He's picked a restaurant where no one would object to a muggle-born, even covertly, but where that she's with him will be noted and gossiped about. It had been a tricky balance and he was pleased with himself for finding it.

"Congratulations," he toasts her, "on your scintillating new job. I'm sure you're the most overqualified second assistant to the under deputy researcher of runes they've ever had."

"I'll try not to fall asleep at work. Honestly," she sips from her flute. "People act as though translating ancient runes is difficult; you should hear these people complain. Lazy sots. But, there's some good stuff tucked away in Ministry archives that hasn't seen the light of day in centuries. I'm going to start indexing things we might find useful."

He rolls his eyes. "Do you ever stop being an insufferable know-it-all?"

"I've been told not, no."

. . . . . . . . .

Hermione is, Draco has to admit, terrifyingly skilled at being good company. She leans in towards him, seems to find his anecdotes amusing, echoes his opinions back at him just altered enough to not sound like mindless repetition. Her dark eyes peer at him in the candlelight, framed by long lashes, her smile tantalizes. It's easy to forget she's pretending to be enchanted, easy to just look at the beautiful woman laughing with him, drawing a little charmed circle around them both, making men envy him her company. When they push out the door, throwing their young bodies into the street, good natured, indulgent looks follow them. Who can resist the joy that spreads out from new love, from the beauty of youth delighted with itself, delighted with one another? If a few older women look at her with cool speculation in their eyes, if a few older men noted who he was, who she was, and raised an eyebrow, well, so begins his campaign. Look at me, he thinks, look at me and ask yourself if you really think I'd be out with this woman if her blood status is what you thought it was. Would Lucius Malfoy's son offer a mudblood his arm, take a flower from the vase at the hostess stand and tuck it behind her ear with a laughing bow? Never, never in all the world.

Except, of course, he is doing all of those things. Conspiracy makes odd bedfellows, indeed.

Outside the bookstore he stops her, posing them both in the light of a streetlamp. She spins, arms out, face up to the light and when she almost trips on a cobblestone he steadies her. "Have that removed," he quips and she laughs, the sound racing out, a lure pulling in not only smiles from passing older couples but a photographer taking a cigarette break outside the book signing. The man spots distinctive blond hair, glowing under the light, and nonchalantly pulls his camera up just in case his tedious assignment yields an added, society page bonus.

Draco leans forward and breathes into his date's ear, "I think I like you as my adoring girlfriend." He nuzzles her with his nose and then, laughing, brushes her lips with his. She melts into him and pulls her head back and looks him in the eye and he can suddenly feel her flit against the edge of his brain and he's frozen as she lets herself into his head and hovers there. He can tell she's just standing in the doorway, not actually rifling through his mind. Not yet. "Do you? Really?" she whispers. A sweet and innocent smile rests on her mouth as he closes his eyes. He feels almost sick with fear, memories of knives scraping along his thoughts seizing him. When he looks at her again "it doesn't hurt," falls roughly, unbidden, from his mouth.

"I'm not your aunt," her voice is low, barely a whisper, and she sounds contemptuous and amused and maybe a little bit wounded; the memory of the scar carved into her arm flashes through his brain. "No, La... Hermione," he murmurs, leaning down into her, cupping her face in his hands. She doesn't let herself further into his head, just whispers, "Try to remember that you're mine, not the other way 'round" as they share another very public kiss. It's a good show, their false love. I'm going to drown in this woman, he thinks, and can't decide if his willful immersion in her depths makes that more or less terrible.

That's when the reporter takes the first picture. Looking at it later Draco will almost wish they'd been able to put that one into the top spot but, given what happened next, that was never going to happen. Still, for many years it remained his favorite picture of the two of them; Hermione's curving into him, looking up with the warm expression of a woman not just in love but someone who's come home to safe harbour. Seeing her pulled towards him, seeing her look at him with a smile twitching her mouth up, no one would ever believe they, as a couple, weren't simply meant to be. No one, no one but him, could know he's holding on to her engulfed in a wrenching combination of desire and fear rather than love. This is the one, printed small, that he will cut out from the paper right before he tosses it, this is the one that he will tuck away in the back of a book where it will stay hidden away.

"Hermione?" Ron's coming out of the shop, pen still in hand from his book signing. He's spotted them, so carefully arrayed in the light.

"Ron?" Hermione looks flustered and uncomfortable even as she steps towards her old friend.

"What are you doing here? What are you doing here with _him?" _Ron is predictably furious.

"Dog in the manger, much," drawls Draco even as Hermione murmurs, in apparent confusion, "I'm… I'm on a date, Ron."

"With _Draco Malfoy_?" The contempt in his loud voice is drawing the crowd out of the bookstore as well as from the street and Hermione stumbles to a sad stop, half way between the two men, one heel neatly hooked around the edge of a particularly uneven cobblestone. Draco sees Theo Nott in the crowd, who looks at him and raises his eyebrows. Draco can see the man mouthing 'We need to talk' and nods.

"Well, yes." She sounds so plaintive. She's the last kitten in the litter, the one no one would take home. "You left me, Ron. It took me a long time, but I'm happy again. Draco takes care of me. He makes me feel wanted." She's gesturing weakly, waving that snake bracelet in front of the photographer, whose eyes widen with the unmistakable confirmation of who they are even as he continues taking photograph after photograph. Draco wonders, briefly, if the man would be interested in a society scoop on this budding romance and makes a mental note to check the byline tomorrow.

"You're a muggle-born, Hermione. Draco Malfoy is never going to think of you as anything but trash," snaps Ron. "Don't fall for whatever he's telling you. Did he give you that?" He's pointing at the bracelet. "Something like that, it's practically paying for your services. What are you, his mudblood whore?" And that's when he shoves her. She stumbles back, the hooked heel making her fall and Draco surges forward to catch her.

Harry has rushed out of the store and is grabbing Ron. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" he's demanding even as Hermione cries out.

"My ankle," she gasps, and Draco's immediately got her set down and is bent over her, gently tugging off her shoe and checking her to see if she's okay. "It hurts," she sobs and she collapses against his chest shaking, seeking shelter in his arms. That's the picture that makes the front page, Hermione crying on the pavement, Ron looming over her as Harry holds him back. "War Hero Assaults Ex-Girlfriend."

. . . . . . . . . .

"You were BRILLIANT!" she exclaims as soon as the door has shut. He puts her down, gingerly, and she spins in a complete circle on that supposedly twisted ankle. "Dinner was lovely but that scene. Draco – you are a propaganda mastermind. I can't believe he was stupid enough to actually push me. I mean, I hoped, of course, but I thought I'd have to just fall over on my own." She throws herself with glee onto the couch and laughs. "Let me play benevolent lady for bit and hand out a reward. What, most trusted cavalier, would you most like? Try to stick to something I can actually give you at this point of our fledgling conspiracy."

"While I appreciate the praise, and the offered reward, I just want to clarify," he says, watching her, "that, while I know long term you want to destroy Ron Weasley… "

"…Well, 'destroy' seems harsh." Mirth still frames her, she's got one hand tossed above her head and is kicking off her shoes.

"…what am I allowed to do with Potter?"

The silence lasts a long time.

Finally, she sits up, relaxed no longer, and says, tight and controlled, "I don't know."

"I _hate_ him, Granger."

"And he was my best friend for years. We survived hell together; you have no idea how long we were alone looking for... he's never… just… leave him alone."

He doesn't agree to that. Won't agree to that, so they wait in angry silence, her on her couch and him standing just inside the doorway. "If you touch him without my permission, I'll kill you," she says, at last. "Do you understand?"

"Perfectly, _Lady_," his voice is the lowest, the coldest she's ever heard it. "You think you can let sentiment tie your hands. You can't. But there's no hurry. I shall look forward to the day you tell me I can hurt that sanctimonious, self-righteous, priggish, smug - "

"Enough." She cuts him off. "I don't need a thesaurus recital, thank you. Your opinion has been noted."

Bitch, he thinks. "Fine. I'll take my reward then."

Blinking a bit at his rapid turnaround she shrugs and pulls one foot up, starts to rub her sole. "And what have you decided you want?"

He smiles at her. Smirks, really. "A kiss."

"But… you have kissed me. Why cheat yourself with a reward you've already had? Repeatedly." She's got the same tone in her voice she had when he complimented her appearance, unsure, easily rattled. "This whole night was filled with one little romantic pantomime after another." She shakes her head and settles more deeply into couch, subtly moving away from him. "Choose something else, don't..."

He interrupts her, his voice low. "Do I get my reward for pleasing the Dark Lady, or not? This is what I want. This is the _only_ thing I want. And, my dear, I have no intention of 'cheating myself' as you so charmingly put it." She manages to push herself even deeper into the upholstery and he laughs at her.

"This isn't romance," he walks forward and looks down at her. " This isn't love. I'll play at romance on the street, in the restaurant. In public my heart is on my sleeve and tomorrow our whole world is going to open their morning paper and find that we are madly in love and not a soul will hear differently from me. But that's a lie and we both know it. I still want you. Want you, Hermione. After a night of watching you pretend, watching every eye on you, I want to feel you actually kiss me and I don't especially care whether you like me or not." He squats down in front of her and puts his finger under her chin. "You offered me a reward for services rendered, Lady, and this is what I'm asking."

"This isn't reasonable."

"If you want reasonable, don't look at a man who is joining with a woman he's despised since childhood to overthrow a government. Are you planning on kissing me or reneging?"

She scoots forward, wary enough but playing the game with honor. Well, he thinks, time will strip that out of her.

"No pretense," he says. "Nothing that isn't real, you understand?"

He puts his hands on each side of her face, starts kissing along her jaw, little fluttery touches that have seduced any number of girls. He moves closer then, to the edge of her mouth, kissing first one corner and then the other before he finally presses his lips to hers. He explores them slowly, pulling back to run his tongue along them, to nibble at her bottom lip, and she at last sighs into him, opens her mouth, and he leisurely begins to explore it. She's not fully inexperienced but she's still tentative, hesitant as she lifts her arms to wrap them around him, to pull him in closer to her. Without stopping the kiss – he's starting to think he never wants to stop this kiss – he reaches his hands up and starts unpinning her braids, letting all that hair down so he can run his hands through it, so he can rumple that cool perfection. His hands tangled up in her hair – how could he have ever thought this glorious hair was anything but beautiful – he pulls away from her mouth and starts kissing her neck, scraping her with his teeth, leaving a line of small bites down to her shoulder. She's the one who pulls him back to her mouth, who now frantically, hungrily devours him and when he pulls away from her, looks down, she's completely disheveled, her lips swollen, her mouth open and panting.

He whispers hoarsely, "An excellent reward, Lady." And then, with an elaborate, courtly bow he turns to leave.

When his hand is on the door she stops him. "Draco." Her voice is as cool and unhurried as an autumn stream. If he hadn't just seen her, just felt her clinging to him, he'd never have known how thoroughly he'd disheveled her.

"Thank you for the bracelet. I think it suits."

. . . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – Thank you for reading, and following, and liking, and letting me know when proofreading issues have arisen (no, really) or any other issues (again, really). Extra special thanks to people who have taken the time to review. I know I say it every chapter but it remains true; your words really make me so happy and I really really value your thoughts. So, thank you Guest, LadiePhoenix007, . , laylacane, anthraquinblue, sparklefreeze, MomsEscape, ThePinkPolkaDot9, Mistress-Cinder, and pagyn! You are my iced coffee with extra sugar and a rice krispie treat I don't have to share…**

**(also, I lack a beta and if you think to yourself, 'why, yes, I need one more obligation in my life and proofreading this story sounds like a darn good one to take on' please let me know!)  
**

**Coming next: The first recruit….**


	4. Chapter 4 - The First Recruit

"You got the goodiest of all goody-two-shoes to go out with you, wearing a snake on her wrist. An expensive snake. Something's going on." Theo has a drink in each hand, passes one over to him. Greg has the others and gives a bottle to Blaise before sinking into a chair that objects to his weight with a heavy creak. The bar is dark, really dark, and, other than a group arguing about quiddich in a corner booth, wholly deserted. Without a name, without a sign by the door, this is a place you have to know about. It's a place for men of a certain class to congregate away from wives and girlfriends, to meet without being bothered. Twenty years ago business deals were closed here. Ten years ago Death Eaters would have swaggered through, dragging violence behind them; now the furnishings have that 'replaced with whatever we found' shabbiness, cold ashes choke the fireplace, and even the cobwebs have dust on them. Now it's just them, former schoolboys, and the sports enthusiasts. "Do you actually like her?"

Draco thinks about his reply. "She's possibly the most interesting woman I've met. I'd follow her anywhere."

"I thought she was a mudblood. Not exactly your type. Have you taken to slumming or something?" Greg wipes at the sticky dust on their table in disgust.

Draco raises his eyebrows. "Despite the evidence of our current surroundings, I don't slum. Though I am, you may have noticed, not always right."

"Muggle parents, mate." Theo shakes his head.

"Raised by muggles, certainly. You ever read the Ugly Duckling?"

"Where are those parents now?" Theo's leaning back, drink in hand, pulling away from the table that Greg continues to blot at with a paper napkin. "They never clean this place, Greg. You aren't going to get it sanitary with that thing; give it a rest."

"Australia," Blaise answers. "She sent them there during the war, totally obliviated any knowledge of her, to protect them. Afterwards, when she patched up their brains, they decided to stay and she returned. The papers kind of swept it under the rug, but I don't think they're close. Hell, everyone at school knew she spent every holiday at the Weasley's."

"Merlin, can you imagine," Greg muttered. "Raised by muggles, the only real people who'll take you in the Weasleys? It's enough to make me feel sorry for her."

Draco smiles inwardly. He'd known Greg would be the easiest to convince. A dull man, if a loyal one, seeped in pure blood ideology. That Granger hadn't been incompetent had always seemed a personal affront to Greg's simple belief system. Now he'll latch onto the idea of her as a pureblood with a convert's obsessive zeal because it will shore up his own prejudices.

"Well," he drawls, "I'm not dating her because I feel sorry for her, that's for sure, but you don't really think I'd sully myself with her, no matter what she looks like, if she were what we thought, do you?"

"I think – no, I know - you've screwed any number of mudbloods, probably muggles too, in cheap hotels, so don't be so high and mighty," snorts Blaise. "Still, have to admit, I've never seen you actually take one out in public."

"Standards," Draco agrees.

"Standards," and they all raise their glasses.

"Still," persists Greg, "I thought she and Weasley were a thing."

Theo looks at Greg with disgust. "Do you even look at a paper? Ever? Weasley's turned his bit of war heroism into an excuse to sleep with every woman he can get his filthy little hands on, and the Daily Prophet chronicles his conquests like the distracting razzle-dazzle that they are. Why waste column space on actual news when you can run another tell-all article about that blood traitor's worthless tarts."

Draco laughs. "Not only aren't they a thing, I think she might actually want to kill him."

"She looked pretty sad last week, mate." Theo shakes his head. "If I were reading their little confrontation correctly, she looked like a woman whose heart had been broken into teeny tiny bits."

"Trust me on this one, she hates him. Potter, not so much, but she absolutely hates Weasley."

"Anyone know why they broke up?"

"She won't talk about it, almost took my head off when I asked." Draco shrugs. He's actually still insanely curious how that little romance went sour, but a healthy sense of self-preservation has kept him from pushing Hermione about it.

Blaise always knows the gossip, even the things that don't make the papers. "I heard he couldn't get it up after the war. Blamed it on her, dumped her. Told her afterwards, in public, after he started screwing all his groupies, that she'd been his problem. Not sexy enough or something."

"Instead of post-traumatic whatsit?" Greg snorts. "Fuck, what a bloody arsehole. Everyone knows some people needed a little time after the war. Some people screwed like rabbits, some people became kind of non-functional." He looks up at the other men. "What? It got better! I don't get any complaints. But you wouldn't catch me telling some chick it's her damn fault I freaked out after the war. That was some scary shit."

Blaise raises his glass towards Draco. "Well, mate, she's hot as hell now. I can't imagine you're having any of Weasley's little troubles."

Draco remembers her, flushed and disheveled, after he'd extracted his little reward, and says, with a certain vicious pleasure, "No, I can't say that I am." Unbidden, then, the thought of her hand in his hair, her touch a leash binding him to her, comes to him and he controls a shudder, if not quite well enough for them all to miss it. Most, but not all.

Theo sends a level look at him across the table and when the dark haired man leaves to head towards the loo, Draco follows. They stop in a long, dank corridor, under a burned out light, bottles in hands. "I've known you a long time, Draco. I know what you're like with a new girlfriend and this is different. Really different. I can tell you're not sleeping with her; you don't look smug enough. I don't even think you like her very much. Hell, you seem almost scared of her, which makes no sense at all, and, frankly, I don't really believe she's some foundling. 'Ugly Duckling', my arse. You're up to something."

"Oh, I like her well enough. She's fascinating."

"Yeah? Lots of things are fascinating. Hippogriffs are fascinating. I understand some people are fascinated by ferrets. That Hermione Granger is suddenly on your arm, not looking like something the cat dragged in? That you've got her sporting a pretty little symbol on her arm? That you're guarding your thoughts when you talk about your supposed conquest? That's also pretty damn fascinating. Tell me what's going on."

Draco looks at him, raises an eyebrow, and asks, "How do you feel about the Order of the Phoenix?"

"Probably about the same as you. It's a conversation we've had. Are you changing the subject, or getting somewhere?"

"How would you feel about seeing the end of said Order?"

"Like a lifetime of Christmas come all at once. Why?"

"What do you know about Nimue?" Draco persists.

"Lady of the Lake, learned everything Merlin knew than betrayed him, magically bound him into a tree. Eventually - " the man pauses, " – eventually she invested Arthur, and all his get, with the kingship."

"Put it together, Theo."

The other man looks at him for a while, leaning up against the dirty wall. Then, "You're playing a dangerous game. Do you trust her?"

"Implicitly." Draco laughs, that low hoarse laugh. "I'd better. I put my life in her hands and told her to do with it as she chose so long as she ends the Order."

"Death Eaters, again?"

"Merlin, no." Draco shudders openly this time. "No fireworks, no tattooing, no gleeful terrorism for the sake of anarchy. We just quietly move in and take over, do things our way. She rallies the plebian masses for support, the third member of the golden trio, so cruelly rejected by them, the only one who can save us from Order corruption and decadence. Seize back our lands, disband the Wizengamot, return to a world with old privileges and responsibilities restored."

"It's got a certain allure, I admit."

"Theo," Draco looks at him levelly. "She's a pureblood. A poor, unfortunate, lost soul who only recently learned of her true parentage. Wrong side of the sheets, of course, but pureblood." His tone is laced with warning.

"Of course she is." Theo smiles. "How could a woman so very, very good at magic be anything else? Tragic, really, to have grown up in ignorance. I assume she doesn't like to talk about it?"

"Much too painful, yes."

"Should I gossip?" Theo raises his eyebrows.

"Hints about her tear-jerker of a back-story? Oh yes." Draco nods. "As often and to as many people as you can without seeming suspicious."

"To the Dark Lady, then?" Theo raises his bottle towards his friend.

"I wouldn't call her that in public. After the last one, dark anything is going to send people running scared."

"Then to our fair heroine, political crusader." Draco lifts his glass as well, and both men drink.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo steps inside Hermione's flat which, as Draco has still failed to convince her of the value of moving to his much larger one, is still the same ratty walk-up. The only real virtue of the place is the light, which spills in from windows on every side as well as from some filthy skylights. The room is barren, almost no furniture, certainly no decorations. Books stack up against the walls. It looks like nothing so much as the temporary home of a graduate student at university. "This," he says, "is not what I would have expected from the headquarters of a new, dark movement."

"I'm not going to waste the inner circle's time with pointless pomp. You're in this, or not, and filling the room in overdone symbolism isn't going to change that." Hermione has draped herself, quite unceremoniously, over a worn armchair in the center of the room with her feet dangling over one arm and her head propped on the other armrest. She looks like an heiress, careless and idle. If her fingers held a wine glass the illusion of decadence would be complete. Instead, however, she's holding a wand that's pointed steadily at Theo. "I understand you seem to think your contribution would be somehow valuable here."

Draco has positioned himself off to the side. He's watching, curious how she plans to handle this, how Theo will manage this more dangerous version of the girl he'd casually despised on principle when they were children. Trained in the harsh world of dark politics, the man neither grovels nor postures. "I understand you have plans to rid of us these meddling fools, restore what is ours."

She nods, swings her feet around so she's seated upright, leans forward. "I assume Draco has filled you in on the rough outline as it exists?" At Theo's nod she continues, "So, here's how this will work. You'll give me your wand while I pick through your brain. If you aren't interesting or useful to me, I'll obliviate you and send you on your way. If you're actually treacherous, I'll leave you drooling at St. Mungo's with just enough wit left to know what happened to you. If you pass the test, I'll put an itty-bitty spell in your brain so, should you decide to embrace treachery later, I have an off switch. For you."

Draco moves, sharply, and she smiles at him. "Some of the books you brought me on legilimancy were _very _interesting, especially when combined with things from the archive at work." Then she smiles and looks less like a woman threatening death and more like a child caught stealing cookies by an indulgent parent. "Though, I admit I haven't actually tested it. It might not work."

"Does Draco have an off switch in his head?" Theo asks, pulling his wand out, turning it around and holding it out to her.

"I have other ways of handling Draco." She takes the wand and gestures with it towards the floor, where the man gracefully kneels before her, unflinching even when she holds his face and looks into his eyes, into his brain. She's so quiet when she's concentrating; Draco hadn't noticed that she needed to focus this much when she waltzed into his head and wonders whether that means she doesn't need to concentrate until she's all the way in or whether he's just that much of an open book to her. There's a fly buzzing at the window, trying to escape through impenetrable glass, and the sound seems loud in the fraught room. Draco watches his best friend kneeling on the floor, letting his very self be turned inside out, like pockets before the wash. Someone needs to kill that damned fly and why is this taking so long?

She pulls back, takes Theo's wand and shoves it, hard, into his neck, assessing him. Then, she flips it around, stands, and holds it back to him.

"Take your wand, Theodore Nott, and wield it for Our aims, in defense of your Lady and for your own honor, as need be."

"Until death, Lady," he murmurs, taking it back from her.

"Which," she says drily, ritualistic formality tossed away, "is what we'll all get if we screw this up. So let's not, shall we?" She looks, clearly irritated, at the window. "Will one of you kill that damn fly?"

Theo flicks his wand, just the tiniest of movements, a thread of green light attacks the fly and the room is silent.

"Impressive."

"I'm the son of a Death Eater and had the dubious pleasure of learning from the Carrows. You'll find my technique to be excellent." Theo rises and bows.

"Beyond excellent. Welcome to our excellent band of, well, 'brothers' seems awfully patriarchal but 'siblings' doesn't quite have the same alliterative ring, does it."

"Noble company?" suggests Draco, handing each of them a glass of champagne he's rapidly fetched from the unpleasant kitchen. "I thought perhaps a minor celebration to honor the official first recruit?"

"'We few, we happy few'?" Theo takes his glass and raises it towards Hermione. "To you, and to the steady increase in our numbers, filled with men with stomach for the fight. And women." He pauses. "This is awkward. What am I supposed to call you?"

She laughs, and throws back her glass. "Hermione is fine when we're being informal or are in public. Save 'Dark Lady' for private, formal occasions. Sit," she waves at both of them, settles herself back into her chair; they all relax, Draco on the floor leaning up against her chair, Theo in a chair of his own. "Now, what to do with you. Any interest in getting a government job?"

"Tricky for the children of Death Eaters," comments Theo.

"Are you qualified?" She's running her fingers through Draco's hair and he's leaning back against her hand without visible pride or resistance.

Theo watches the little scene, fascinated. Other ways of handling Draco, indeed. Then, "Certainly I'm qualified. More than."

"Research what position you think would suit you best, something believable where you can work your way up, and I'll ensure you get hired." At his quizzical look she adds, "Imperious. I'm such a popular thing, you know, especially with people who want to know the gossip about dear Ronald and his naughty little shoving problem. I'll have coffee with whomever needs to think you should be given a chance and brought into their department and by the end of our happy social chat they'll be delighted to hire you. Once you're in, though, you're on your own. Be competent and start climbing the ladder. Hire people sympathetic to us, even if they aren't actually part of our company. Position yourself well."

"That I can manage."

"Don't disappoint me." Her tone lacks any hint of a threat but Theodore Nott shivers anyway.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione and Theo both reference the St. Crispin's Day speech in Henry V. "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; / For he today that sheds his blood with me / Shall be my brother;"

. . . . . . . . .

**A/N – Thank you for reading, for reviewing, for following, for letting me know what you think, for tactfully pointing out punctuation issues, for just generally making writing this down as is pours out of my head even more of a pleasure. Extra love and thanks to KincaidBabe, Pank98, . , LadiePhoenix007, pagyn, Chester99, and Mistress-Cinder. **

**Your reviews truly do make my day.**

**One straightforward question: does anyone mind if I shift this from T to M, with all that that implies for future chapters? (I don't do dub-con or non-con. Period. But, well, dramoine…)**

**I'd truly meant to update The Die first but I'm struggling with that chapter and hope that if I get **_**this**_** version of Theo and Draco out of my head for a bit then the version where they're not blood purists bent on conquest will flow more easily.**

**Next chapter: 2 meetings, one productive and one not**


	5. Chapter 5 - Two Meetings & A Proposal

His mother throws the paper in front of him. "What is this?"

Draco picks up the folded Prophet and glances at the pictures. Ah, they'd finally run the spread; he needed to remember to send a discreet gift to that photographer.

"Funny, I would have thought you'd be fairly familiar with the society pages." He sets the paper down and smiles at his mother across her tea table. She's set it out with enough reminders of the Malfoy heritage he's surprised it doesn't collapse from the weight of expectations. You can strip most of the wealth from a woman of privilege, he thinks, but never her sense that meddling in her child's life is a sacred duty.

"I mean the girl. Explain the girl."

Draco idly shrugs. "While I'm crushed to destroy your good opinion of me, I find that I am unable to explain women."

Narcissa Malfoy sets her cup down so vigorously the tea sloshes over the side. "I want you to explain why you are pictured in the paper with _that girl._"

"And here I thought you'd be pleased to see me getting serious about a witch." He picks up a spoon and measures sugar into his cup. "Last time this subject came up you castigated me about how I wasn't doing my duty to the line and that I needed to get on producing an heir with all due haste. I simply took you at your word." He stirs and smiles at her.

"She's... not appropriate."

The delicate dodge makes Draco appreciate her tact. Narcissa Malfoy, with her ability to imply a great deal while saying nothing, will tell everyone who matters that her future daughter-in-law is most certainly a welcome addition without ever spelling out what that means.

"The brightest witch of our age _and _a war heroine?" He admires the photo of Hermione; the simple black dresses he's been pushing her to wear suit her, balance out that hair, and, as always, she's got his bracelet on her arm. He likes that she never takes it off. "Beautiful, too."

"Draco, I understand a young man often has… needs." Narcissa has her 'something has gone bad and I can smell it' face on. "But a girl you publicly link yourself with should be…" she hesitates.

"Mother," Draco looks up from the paper and lifts his cup halfway to his mouth before stopping to ask, "Have you ever known a woman who perhaps found herself inconveniently in a family way? A married woman whose hobbies were, perhaps, less acceptable than needlepoint and shopping? Who opted to quietly tuck a little mistake away in the chaos of the first war rather than risk a marriage? Or a younger girl, maybe, whose parents covered up her fall from grace?"

Narcissa frowns at him. "Are you telling me this girl…?"

He takes a calm sip of his sweetened tea. "I'm not telling you anything. We are having a completely unrelated conversation."

"You understand," says his mother with great care, "that I am only seeking what is best for you."

"I'm sure you know I would never associate myself with anyone… unsuitable." Draco smiles winningly at his mother. "No matter what it might appear on the surface."

"Perhaps I should meet her," Narcissa sounds almost pained but, Draco thinks, this is going quite well. An abandoned bastard could hardly be her ideal but it's more palatable than the truth.

"Theo quite likes her."

"Theodore Nott? You've introduced her to Theodore Nott?"

"Of course. How many Theos do I know?" He pauses and adds, "You know, mother, that now matter how opaque or serpentine I may seem, my end goals are always what is best for us and ours." Narcissa nods slowly and picks up the paper again, studying the photographs.

"How serious are you?"

"Wholly." Draco picks a piece of lint off of his sleeve; black requires an inordinate amount of wardrobe maintenance. "I'm not sure what timing will be best, but I have every intention of being honorable here."

"That's… good." Narcissa still sounds like she's being strangled.

"There are some things that because of her -." He stops as if to weigh his words carefully though, of course, he's scripted this whole request in advance "- her _unfortunate_ upbringing that she won't be able to do without help. Would you consider standing in as a maternal figure and planning out a wedding, something very formal, very traditional?"

Narcissa hesitates. "Won't her own mother want that honor?"

He snorts. "None of her parents will be attending. People who abandon children lose all right to them, and, as for those others, I will not have muggles at my nuptials. Will not. Period." Narcissa smiles at his visceral disgust; his reaction assuages any lingering fears she had that this girl might simply be so … accommodating ... that she's ensnared Draco despite inferior blood, an inferior birth. Still, there are practical considerations.

"Who will give the bride away? If you want traditional, foregoing that is not an option."

Draco frowns. "As much as I hate the man, Harry Potter might be ideal." He tunes out his mother's prattling on about color schemes – obviously green – and flower choices – as if either he or Hermione cares – and wonders if the bloody arsehole can be convinced to publicly condone their relationship that way. It might dispose some of the rapid Potter fans to their cause, not that any of them could be trusted as more than fodder but there's strength in numbers and he'll need numbers when it comes time to march in the streets. Plus, he just likes the symbolism of the wanker many consider the face of the Order giving her away, giving her away to him. "Of course," he says aloud, interrupting his mother's detailed analysis of caterers, "he's a half-blood and I was hoping to keep the wedding pureblood only."

Narcissa, cut off mid-asparagus as it were, stops and looks at him. "Really?"

"Is that a problem? Is there some half-blood old biddy we can't afford to offend?"

"Nooooo," she drawls out her answer and sets aside her brief wedding frenzy like a purse she'd spotted in a store, considered, and then decided wouldn't be quite right after all. She looks at her son; his eyes hooded, lost in thought, he doesn't look like a man in love. "Draco. Are you sure this is what you want?"

"I need this wedding to establish beyond a doubt that I consider her blood of the first order and that I embrace traditional values. Can you manage that?"

"What are you planning, Draco?"

"A wedding, I thought."

She looks at him, considering. "Of course. Planning a traditional wedding would be a pleasure, one I'd never thought to have. And I'm always happy to assist you in any way. But… have you asked her what she wants. Women do often have opinions about their wedding." Draco looks sufficiently nonplussed that Narcissa adds, "Have you even proposed yet?"

"Not formally. I assure you, it's understood."

"I think you might want to actually ask her before I start booking caterers. And, Draco - "

"Yes?"

"You are sometimes very much like your father."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

. . . . . . . . . .

"I don't know, 'Mione." Harry pushes the soft drink back on the table and looks at the woman sitting carefully in the seat of the café. She's picking at a pastry, leaving it ripped into small pieces but seems too nervous to eat. "It's hard to wrap my mind around the idea of you dating Draco Malfoy. He's… I believe you when you say he's not like his parents. I do. But he was really prejudiced, Hermione, really awful. Can you tell me that your blood status doesn't matter to him at all? Really? That he's not using you?"

"What would he be using me for?"

Harry pushes his glasses back up his nose and stares at his long time friend. "Sex?"

"You're making a bit of an assumption." Hermione snaps, blushing. "Besides," she mutters, "is it really that impossible that he might just like me for me? Just because Ron thinks I'm not good enough…"

"… Ron was an idiot about that. I told him that then."

"Anyway, I asked him about my blood status. Asked him specifically if he could handle it. He said it didn't matter to him." She picks off another piece of the scone and crumbles it between her fingers. "Harry, it's really important to me that you and he make peace between you. I know you hated him for a long time, but could you please find a way to come to some kind of détente."

"Why is this so important to you?"

"Because it is." She tries for a conciliatory smile. "I'm really happy with him, Harry. I don't want there to be strife between the two men I adore - " Harry looks sick at the idea of her adoring Draco but she presses on " – just when I'm finally getting my personal life together. You don't have to go out to the pitch together, or anything. I just really want you to be… not at war with each other. It's been years; can't you let it go? For me?"

"I don't know, Hermione. He was a Death Eater." She starts to protest and he interrupts her. "You can tell me until forever that his father made him do it, that he was just a kid, whatever. He took the Mark. He's responsible for Dumbledore's death, even if he didn't cast the curse himself. He was a rotten arsehole for years and, yeah, maybe he's figured out blood status isn't the most important thing in life but I can't believe he's not still a manipulative, vicious bastard. My God, woman, he stood there and watched his aunt torture you. How can you stand to look at him across a table, hold his hand? How can you wear that thing he gave you on your wrist? How can you ask me to make nice with him?"

She starts twisting her bracelet around and around to keep from screaming at him. "I don't know, Harry. Maybe you could do it just because I asked you, because you care more about me than about your stupid grudge." Her voice comes out in a low, controlled, furious hiss. "Maybe you could accept him for me because I accepted it when you decided Ron and the Weasleys mattered more to you than I did – no, don't even try to deny it. I get it, I do. You needed a family. Need a family. And I have never _once_ thrown that in your face before today, though I'm certainly not welcome there so I'm essentially cut off from you, my best friend, as well as the Weasleys. 'Maybe if you had been married,' Molly said to me. Did you know that? I spent years there as a guest, I thought as a surrogate daughter, but it turned out I was only welcome as Ron's appendage and once he had had enough of me, well, so had she."

"It wasn't like that, Hermione," he protests.

"Really? Because it sure looked like that to me. And it looked like, when the chips were down, you picked Ron because it was _just_ _too awkward_."

"He's my best mate!" Harry snapped at her.

"And what am I?"

"You're like the sister I never had," he mutters. "The estranged, difficult sister."

The waitress bustles over and both friends sit, in mutual fury, as she asks meaningless, polite questions about the drink Harry's not touching, about the scone Hermione has almost totally destroyed. Everything's fine, they assure her. No, really, just the check when you get a moment. Thank you.

When the woman finally leaves, their money in her hand, Hermione says. "Make it up with Draco, Harry. If you do one thing for me in your entire, bloody adult life, make it up with Draco."

He shakes his head. "It's too much to ask. I hate him, Hermione. I hate everything he stood for, everything he stands for."

"Does it ever bother you?" She reaches out to touch the faint scar that remains on the back of his hand. 'I must not tell lies'.

"What?"

"You don't like what Draco 'stands for'?" She makes little air quotes with her fingers. "What do you stand for, these days? Parties? Good times? You told the Ministry before Voldemort fell that you wouldn't be used. When did you change your mind? You were a hero, Harry. Now you're just a mouthpiece."

"You have a lot of nerve." He stands up and slams his napkin on the table.

"I'm begging you, Harry. You owe me…." She grabs at his hand but he shrugs her off with an angry shake.

"The answer is no." With that, he walks out of the café.

. . . . . . . . . .

When she walks in the door of her flat she finds Draco sitting there, reading. She throws her coat down, tosses her wand at him and stalks towards her bathroom.

"Umm, Hermione?" He looks at the wand in his hand.

"What? You plan on cursing me with it?" she snaps.

"Of course not."

"Good. Then just hold on to it. Merlin knows I should bloody well trust you enough for that. I'm taking a bath. A long, hot bubble bath. With a book. And a glass of wine. Maybe two. Sodding bastard. 'My estranged, difficult sister.' Nice."

"Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?" he asks, carefully calm in the wake of her fury, setting the revelation that she trusts him aside as something to think over later.

She stops and turns on him. "No. No, you are not. Why are you in my flat, anyway?"

"I was planning on proposing matrimony but it can wait if you're really in this much of a shite mood."

"I…" she trails off, looking at him.

"You need a glass of wine, which I will fetch you." He tucks her wand into his pocket. "Go take your bath, read your book. When I'm less afraid you'll tear me apart we can talk about what you'd like in a ring and how to time the announcement for maximum impact."

"Draco - "

"Yes?"

"Sometimes I actually like you."

"That's good since we're getting married."

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – Thank you everyone, for reading and reviewing and, well, really just for existing. Special awkward internet hugs to all the wonderful people who reviewed the last chapter: LadiePhoenix007, Wolfman217, mynameismommy , Pank98, NightshadePrincess, Naysaykaybay, Chester99, and pagyn.**

**Coming next: The media campaign begins.**

**OK, actually what's coming next should be the next chapter of The Die, but next in THIS fic is the media campaign… doing two multi-chapter fics at once, about different versions of the same characters, that's not at all nuts, right?**


	6. Chapter 6 - Devising Myriad Plots

"Tell me about traditional pureblood mores."

Theo leans back against the wall and looks at Hermione. "It's so easy to forget about your disadvantaged childhood until you ask these questions. How did you survive, anyway?"

The current inner circle sits in Hermione's flat. These weekly, informal gatherings have become combination parties and planning sessions. "Let's not harp on my past. How would you describe your own social customs?"

"Conservative." Draco's sitting in the only armchair, leaning forward towards the rest of them, all sprawled on the floor, even Hermione. "Education matters. You're expected to marry young, and well. Women stay home, have babies – sorry Pans, but it's true and you know it – and take up charity work and gardening. They use those social connections to further their husband's political or business aims."

Pansy Parkinson is rolling her eyes and mutters, "Some of that is changing, Draco."

"Only until you're married," Theo snorts. "It's perfectly respectable these days for you to teach, or work in the Ministry, or be a nurse when you're single, but what will you do when you aren't, Pans? Keep going into work? Or start running the local gardening club and use that as a backdoor into influence? Take food baskets 'round, play lady bountiful?"

"Arseholes," the woman mutters.

"You should also be discreet, serious, diligent and in general virtuous," Blaise adds. "Well, the women are supposed to be virtuous. As long as I'm discreet, I'm good."

"Charming." Hermione rolls her eyes. "So, granting that the traditionally powerful families are socially very conservative, how would you describe this?" She tosses the day's paper in the center of their little group. Ron sits in some gilded bar, surrounded by young women, throwing back a glass of champagne. There's a cabaret going on behind them and a dancer shakes her mostly bare breasts at the camera.

"Hot?" asks Blaise and Theo covers a laugh as Pansy glares at them both.

"Disgusting." Pansy states flatly. "I'm surprised Molly Weasley still allows him into the family home, to be completely honest. He's a disgrace. Sorry, Hermione, I know you had a thing for him."

"Had is right. Past tense," mutters Draco.

"Is this the limit of it," Hermione asks.

"Oh, there's more." Theo looks at her. "You'd blush to know what happens behind closed doors. Forgive my traditionalism coming out here, but gently bred girls aren't supposed to know this stuff happens, much less have me delineate it. Not that you're gently bred, more like raised by wolves, but … suffice to say that it's not pretty."

"Plus the ostentation thing," Draco adds.

"Exactly," says Pansy. "That bracelet? That's _barely_ an appropriate gift with you two not engaged. The only reason it's acceptable is everyone knows it's just a matter of time. But Order members are draping women in jewels, furs, what have you. And then they go out into the streets like that with people starving in the shadows."

"Tossing coins to people whose houses they've confiscated," mutters Theo.

"I don't want to touch the war profiteering issues quite yet," murmurs Hermione. "We'll get there. I want to prime the hatred and resentment in subtler ways first. Pansy," she turns to the woman. "Can you get a job as a gossip columnist on your own or do you need my help? Freelance is fine."

Pansy shrugs. "My family still has enough cachet, no matter how poor we are now, that it should be easy enough to write a society column." She's suddenly formal. "What's your will, Lady?"

"I want you to pen article after article describing, in lavish detail, the lives of Order members. Don't lie; you shouldn't have to. Just put the emphasis on things you know will grate. The women, the parties, the lavish lifestyles. Talk about how they are pleasure seekers, absolved from all responsibility. Grind those themes in until no one thinks of the Order, and certain Ministry officials, as anything but a group of irresponsible hedonists."

"But," complains Greg, who has been silent until now, watching the breasts in the photograph, "all those things are true."

"Of course they are. It wouldn't be nearly as effective if they weren't." Hermione turns to Pansy, who's smiling the cold smile of understanding. "You tell me you're surprised Molly Weasley lets Ronald in her home given how he's living; imagine how a steady flow of this information will affect a rural housewife who can barely feed her children or a laborer who worked hard all his life only to have his farm seized so war heroes can swim in champagne."

"They'll hate it."

"Exactly. And once the general resentment about their entitled decadence has grown we'll start leaking information through other channels about the abuses and seizures and profiteering." Hermione taps her fingers against the floor, thinking. Also, I may have you do a puff piece about me, including photographs of this flat."

"This place is a dump," Pansy mutters. "You don't even have a television in here."

"Raised by muggles, remember? I don't find their technology especially exotic or interesting. Plus, the Ministry licensing fees are outrageous."

"So that's why you won't move in with me," Draco frowns, a nagging question answered. "This place is a set. You're staging yourself as Hermione Granger, the only member of the Order of the Phoenix living simply, holding true to older values. The one who wants to make a difference rather than party until dawn."

She turns and smiles up at him. "Well, that and it's hard to position ourselves as upholders of traditional mores if we're living in sin."

"Have you two set a date yet," Pansy has pulled out a notebook and is making an outline.

"We aren't technically engaged, Pans," Draco leans back into his seat and smirks. "Look at her hand – no ring."

"Uh huh." Pansy doesn't look up. "If it's all right with you both, I'd like to schedule a human interest story on Hermione, a 'where is she now' kind of thing before you make it official. I'll be able to drop hints, and then do a second article once you propose. I'd like to shape you two into a grand romance; most people won't see past her official blood status and you'll be a great unification of the post-war world, fences mended, putting aside long-standing prejudices, blah, blah, blah."

"But you know differently," Draco looks at her.

Pansy yanks the paper away from Greg and tosses it away. "Stop ogling those tramps. Yes, obviously, Draco. But I'm not interested in telling housewives in the rural north that the romantic male lead we plan to give them is too much of a prat to date their miserable, half-blood daughters. I'm spinning fantasy here and the mudblood princess angle is too good to resist even if we all know you'd never touch her if she were actually some filthy muggle-born." She looks up at Hermione. "Assuming that's all acceptable to you."

Draco wonders if Pansy notices the way Hermione's shoulders stiffen, suspects she doesn't.

"Of course. I encourage your initiative; do what you need to do to introduce the characters of the various players in this drama but keep this - " Hermione waves her hand around the room, indicating the group sprawled about on the floor " – a secret. No one needs to know about this."

Pansy nods. "I'll want the scar in the photos."

Hermione shrugs. "Not many people come with so convenient a label. Of course we'll use it."

Theo raises his hand.

"Are we supposed to do that?" Greg asks, looking at the other man.

Blaise rolls his eyes. "Honestly, how do you function?"

Theo, the paper turned to an inside article, lifts it above his head. "If I could shut the two of you up, and move us on from Pansy's little writing assignment, has anyone noticed this?"

Hermione holds her hand out and he passes her the paper. She skims the headline, and frowns. "Well, that's a wrinkle I hadn't anticipated."

Draco reads over her shoulder. _Harry Potter Explores Run for Minister of Magic. _Well, maybe now she'll let him off his leash, let him iron that wrinkle out.

"No, Draco." Hermione doesn't even look at him. Pansy laughs, a raucous, grating sound and he glares at her over everyone's heads. "Greg, I'd like you to recruit Astoria Greengrass. Daphne too, if you can, but Astoria is the one I really want. Blaise, while we're adding members, please see if you can lure in Luna Lovegood."

"I must say," Blaise stretches out on the floor, leans back on his elbow and looks across at Hermione. "Joining you certainly has its benefits. Theo and I have good Ministry jobs and now you've ordered Greg to go and enjoy the pleasure of the company of a girl he's stared at from afar for years."

"Luna Lovegood?" Greg asks. "Wasn't she the crazy one?"

"We can't restrict the inner circle to your little bunch from our year," Hermione leans back against Draco who starts to twine a lock of her hair around his finger. "If we want to take over the world we're going to need a few more resources. Think of it as a glorious opportunity to meet new people, make new friends."

"But I already know Astoria," Greg looks at her.

"Shut up, mate, before she assigns you Luna and I get Astoria," Blaise laughs.

"Theo, if you'd stay behind?" Hermione's tone is clearly a dismissal and the rest of the group starts to stand, brush off their clothing. "Pansy, I'll look forward to reading your work; please coordinate the pieces on me with Draco. Blaise and Greg, let me know when I can schedule time to meet your new friends."

"But - " Greg begins again before Blaise mutters, "Try not to be an idiot, Greg. She knows you know the girl. It's why she asked you to bring her in. Let's go," and yanks the other man out the door. Pansy follows them, laughing at Greg. The paper is still on the floor, open to the article about Harry and an advertisement reminding people that muggle artifact permits can be obtained Mondays thru Thursdays at the Ministry.

"Theo," Hermione smiles at the man. "You mentioned before we began that you wanted to speak to me in private?"

She looks back at Draco who obligingly shrugs and rises. "I'll go get some take away for dinner." As the door shuts behind him he hears Theo start to talk in a low voice, the rustle of papers. When he returns Hermione looks rather pleased.

"I'm afraid," she joins him in the kitchen as Theo leaves and Draco starts to unpack the curry, "that I will not be able to spend quite as much time with you as I'll be volunteering my time at the orphanage."

"The Phoenix Memorial Center for War Orphans?" he asks, eyebrows raised. "Do I ask why you have a sudden urge towards charity work? Is this something to do with Potter's vainglorious 'exploration' of whether he'll run for Minister?"

"Oh, I doubt Harry will be running for Minister, and if he does it won't last." Hermione opens a drawer and sorts through it, looking for a serving spoon. "And, no, you can't kill him."

"You spoil all my fun," he thinks about kissing the back of her neck, wonders how she'd react. "But, really, war orphans?"

"Working with abandoned children strikes me as such an apropos cause, don't you agree? And if I have other reasons to be there, reasons Theo has brought me, well, time will tell us if they play out the way I want." She turns and reaches up to him, pulls him down to her. "Remember," she breathes against his skin, "you can only kill a person once. But public humiliation that catapults us to power? We can savor that over," she kisses him first on one side of his mouth, "and over," and then the other, "again."

He pushes her back against the counter, leans down and into her, his mouth on her skin, enjoying the way she melds her body into his, how easily she fits against him. "Sometimes," he murmurs, his lips against the side of her neck, "the way your mind works frightens me."

"Only sometimes?"

"Sometimes I'm thinking about other things."

. . . . . . . .

"I don't understand why you get that magazine. It's nothing but trash," the man flips through the mail. "What is it this time? Another detailing of Ginevra Potter's wardrobe?"

The woman laughs. "Give what those dresses cost, you'd think there'd 've been more fabric, eh?"

"Disgusting, the lot of them. Her, her brother, that whole Phoenix lot."

"What about her?" his wife hands him the magazine. Hermione stands in her plain walk-up, bathed in light, smiling shyly at the photographer. The caption reads, "Lost member of the 'golden trio' talks about her work with London orphans."

"What's she done since the war, anyway? Don't hear much about her."

"Says she's got some low-level job at the Ministry, spends her time volunteering. She's dating Draco Malfoy; the article hints he plans to propose soon."

The man makes a harrumphing sound. "So the rest of them go out partying and she's stuck pushing papers in a government office, huh? Guess being the muggle-born in that group didn't work out so hot; figures the Phoenix bastards turned out to be as much've rotten bigots as those bleedin' Death Eaters." He pauses. "At least she's dressed decently. Malfoy, huh? Isn't he one of them poncy sorts?"

The woman shrugs and takes the paper back. "Never seen him. His mum used to come 'round, make sure all the local crofters kids had the robes and books they needed for school. Right ladylike, she was."

"We could use more ladylike like that from them's in charge."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Humph." Narcissa looks Hermione over. "He did a decent job on the costuming but you need a better bag." She's sitting at a small table. Draco has dropped Hermione off, kissed his mother, and removed himself with remarkable haste from their company. "She'll help plan the wedding," he'd said. "You won't know how to send the right signals, she's already agreed. Just figure out whatever details you have to have input into and then it will be done." Narcissa does not appear to be interested in weddings, however, so much as examining her future daughter-in-law.

"I beg your pardon?"

"An ambitious person should always wear good shoes, carry a good bag. Spin." Narcissa makes a little gesture with her finger and, utterly bemused, Hermione complies and turns in a circle. "Yes, we'll get you a new bag but the clothes are a vast improvement."

"I'm so glad you approve." Hermione's tone is rigorously polite.

"I looked up in old _Prophets_ what you used to wear. That the Weasleys effectively fostered you is more than obvious. Hideous. This," the woman gestures up, then down, pointing her finger at Hermione's dress, "is much better. The bracelet is a nice touch. Subtle, good quality. So, do you love my son?"

Hermione smiles, very slowly. "Draco and I are well suited to one another. We understand each other. It is… rare… to find a person who accepts you for who you are."

"Excellent." Narcissa frowns. "I was not pleased to see him linked with you. I think you would prefer I be frank with you, yes? Your birth, whether or not my son's fantastical tale is to be believed, is far below his. You have, of course, done well for yourself in the wizarding world and, I suppose, in these times, I should be pleased he's found a girl on the winning side of that war who isn't a mindless tart given over to idiotic pleasures. I understand you volunteer your time at the orphanage?"

"Yes, I do." Hermione wonders whether this kind of sharp change in topic indicates sloppy thinking or an attempt to unnerve her.

"An excellent occupation for a young woman. A far superior choice than the ones your compatriots have made."

"I fear, Mrs. Malfoy, if you hope that your son's connection to me will result in closer bonds with the Order of the Phoenix for your family, that I will have to disappoint you. I am almost wholly estranged from my former friends."

"An estrangement that shows good sense on your side. When did you learn about your parents?"

"I am afraid I do not understand your question." Hermione settles down into a chair across from Narcissa, rests her hands in her lap and smiles calmly at the woman questioning her.

"You aren't afraid of anything. The last girl he brought me shook the entire time; I thought she might leave a trail of hairpins falling from her absurd hairdo, she quivered so much. But you, you sit there, bold as brass. Good." Narcissa nods emphatically. "A Malfoy shouldn't be afraid. Now, tell me about your parents."

"My parents have emigrated to Australia. Surely you don't expect me to repudiate the people I've known my whole life?"

Narcissa smiles at the girl. "No. No, I do not. Come," she stands. "Let us go find you a more suitable bag. That looks like Molly Weasley might have given it to you. Pathetic. Are you sure you are happy to have me plan this wedding? It is unusual for the mother of the groom to have much input but given your…"

"Yes," Hermione rises and smiles. "I would be delighted to leave the entire affair in your capable hands, if you are willing."

"I can plan, you know, but you have to pay for it. Anything else would look like he was buying you."

"Can you keep it simple?"

"Oh yes, a simple garden event. We'll put white flowers in your hands, something from a stall in the market, no orchids, no exotics. We'll make sure everyone who attends appreciates your propriety, which will stand out that much more in comparison to your former associates. You don't want to invite the Weasley's, do you?" Narcissa suddenly sounds horrified.

"Why do you hate that family so much? You, Draco, all his friends? It's not the post-war nonsense; Draco hated him at school too."

"You have to ask this?" Narcissa looks at the woman. "And he told me you were clever. Sit." She points at the small table and Hermione tucks her purse over the corner of a chair and lowers herself down again. Narcissa joins her, tapping her fingers furiously on the wood. "Didn't they take you in, didn't you spend every holiday there?" Hermione nods, her head tipped to the side as she waits for the woman to explain. "You were effectively fostered by them, and now they've rejected you."

"Well, Ron…" Hermione begins.

"Nonsense." Narcissa Malfoy snaps. "If you had been fostered in my home, you would have been my daughter; you wouldn't have been required to maintain a relationship with my son in order to have a family. I realize, Miss Granger, that you have no idea how to properly comport yourself in our world but surely even you can see that the Weasleys are unfeeling, selfish creatures. They focus only on themselves; they are blind to decency, to obligation. She took you in; she has a responsibility to you. She, they all, betray our world, our heritage, with their continually shortsighted, self-serving choices. Blood traitors, all of them." The older woman exhales, suddenly, as though exhausted by her brief tirade. "It's a pity, really, that the old custom of fosterage has all but died out. If it hadn't you wouldn't be sitting in an institution reading to little ones with no families; they'd be in decent homes. Children, Miss Granger, are a treasure beyond price. When we turn our backs on them, consign them to orphanages, reject them from our homes, we poison the roots of our own culture."

"Explain what you mean by 'fosterage.'" Hermione has leaned forward and is focusing intently.

"Typically, in the past, if a child were without parents, which happens less now, of course, other than the war orphans, that child would be taken in by a family of means, raised in the house as one of their own. Similarly, if you had tenants on your land, you would ensure their children had enough to eat, books for school, and so on. Old ways, old customs. In theory the Ministry provides all those things now."

"Not especially well," Hermione murmurs, thinking of the children she sees.

"No," Narcissa agrees. "Not especially well."

"At any rate," Hermione brushes at her skirt, "regarding the wedding guests, I think things will go more smoothly if we keep it to Draco's friends, anyone you think suitable, maybe my friend Luna from school."

"Luna…" Narcissa raises an eyebrow.

"Lovegood. She's Xenophilius' daughter."

"A respectable, if eccentric, man. And Harry Potter?"

"No. He will not be attending." Hermione suddenly smiles at Narcissa, "You will let me choose my own dress, I hope, even as you plan the event?"

"So long as it doesn't look anything like that wretched purse, yes."

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – Thank you all for reading, for your reviews, your follows, your smiles in my general direction. Extra sprinkles on ice cream sundaes for those of you who made my day by taking the time to review, you know I love you in an awkward, I have no idea who you are kind of way. Namely: Wolfman 217, Guest (not a fan of Ron's I take it?), Chester99, dulce de leche go, anthraquinblue, pagyn, Pank98, this guy doesn't have a clue, my name is mommy, and LadiePhoenix007**

**This one was, I admit, pretty heavy on laying the groundwork for six different plots, not counting their marriage, that will play out over time. I hope it wasn't too dull, too lacking in Dramoine fun. Next chapter has angst and more details on one of the plots that dear Hermione is starting to foment here. **


	7. Chapter 7 - Children & Recruits

She'd asked him to come with her; 'I need your eyes,' she'd said. 'I'm never quite sure what cultural norms are in the wizarding world, what's considered reasonable.' He looks around and thinks, whatever reasonable is, this isn't it. The orphanage is relentlessly institutional and cheerless. Someone has taped pages ripped from a children's book onto the wall and the yellow duckies and smiling pigs somehow make the place even sadder; a horse picture hangs askew and he has to fight the urge to go over and stick it back up. "How many children live here," he asks after a few minutes, his voice carefully neutral.

"Twenty-three."

"You read to them?" He's not sure how that's possible; the room has no bookshelves, no books. The floor is painted concrete, there are, he counts, fifteen chairs around tables, a bin of toys sits in one corner. He's willing to bet the toys are wretched cast offs. His own nursery, he remembers, had looked like a shop had thrown up in it, the result of an over-indulgent mother with no budget.

"I do, that and also help with some administrative tasks. Draco," she turns to him, dark eyes troubled. "Is this as bad as I think it is?"

"I don't know how bad you think this is." He looks out the window to a fenced yard. Children kick a ball in the dirt; an older girl has herded some toddlers into a corner and is standing watch over them. They all look thin to him. He's fairly sure his mother would have thrown out every single thing they were wearing.

"I want your opinion, uncolored by mine."

"This is… this is unacceptable. Magical children should not be living like this. I'm not even sure if muggle children should be living like this. I thought this place had funding." He walks over to the toy bin, picks up a stuffed bear that's worn and sticky. He hadn't known stuffed toys could get sticky. "This is disgusting."

"Can you get your photographer friend from the Prophet to come in here, take pictures in secret?" Hermione asks. "And will he sit on them until I tell him to run them?"

"He's not my friend," Draco says absently, watching the children play in the dirt, "but yes." If he has to imperious the man, she'll get her pictures.

Later, at lunch, he explodes. "How is it still that bad if you are there several times a week? What is going _on_ Hermione? What do you and Theo know?"

"A lot of money goes into that place," she says, handing her menu back to the waiter with a polite smile. "It's very well funded."

"Bollocks."

"But it is. The money goes in, Draco. Actually, as far as I can tell even more money goes in than the official funding explains. I'm trying to discover where it goes."

"They're laundering money." He looks at her flatly. "Tell me you're joking."

"I'm not. I've found the books documenting all the income, but it's not clear where it's coming from and I can't find the expense ledgers. I've made copies of what I have found, but…"

"Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Be careful. Promise me you're being careful." He reaches across the table and takes her hand, laces his fingers through hers. "I mean it, Hermione. Go slowly. If you get caught…it would be bad."

She shakes her head at him, "I'll be fine; don't worry about me."

"I do, don't be daft. Of course I do." He looks at her, willing her to listen to him. "You have a history of insane bravery and it's gotten you hurt before. If you were hurt again, I don't know what … just - just humor my selfishness, promise me you'll be careful."

"Why, Drakey, I didn't know you cared," she bats her eyes at him and he drops her hand in disgust.

"The things you don't know, you bloody cow, would astonish you." He glares at her and she flushes, then takes a sip of her water. "I'm still waiting for that promise."

"I'll be careful." She looks at him and he raises his eyebrows and drums his fingers on the table. "Fine, I _promise_."

"Good."

"Draco," she hesitates. "I need to talk about something else. I'm... relieved that that environment is not considered, um, acceptable in the wizarding world. I have something somewhat related I want you to research for me, an idea I got from talking to your mother."

He raises his eyebrows, pulls a piece of bread from the basket. "What?"

"Changelings."

"Changelings? Explain."

"It's a tradition in folklore, fairies stealing away babies and leaving behind, well, different things but generally some kind of fetch that would sicken and die." She starts to reach down to her bag, he assumes to pull out a book, before he stops her.

"I know what they are, Hermione. I want to know where you're going, what you need me to figure out."

"How," she asks, taking her own piece of bread and staring to butter it, "would we make a similar fetch?"

He bites the inside of his cheek and looks at her. Well. That's interesting. "How long does it have to survive, what can I make it out of, what does it have to be able to do? What are the parameters? You're talking about a pretty complicated bit of magic. Dark magic, probably, by the time we get it all solved."

"Which would be why I'm asking you."

"I'm flattered, I guess. I still need the specifications"

"We need to be able to make it indistinguishable from the original, not just similar enough for a cursory inspection but so identical that no muggle technology can tell the difference. It can die fairly quickly, hell, it can be found dead, but has to maintain the illusion until it's buried. Or cremated, I guess," she shrugs.

"Blood magic," he mutters.

"What?"

"I'm just thinking out loud. The best way to personalize the fetch is going to be to use the blood of the person you're replacing, even just a few drops. Can I base research on the assumption I can use blood? That you can get a blood sample from the victim?"

"Not a victim," she smiles at him, "But, yes, you can use a blood sample."

He looks at her but she clearly doesn't intend to explain any further so he just says, "Could you pass me the butter."

. . . . . . . . . .

Of the two new members, Astoria arrives first. She looks around, smiles at Blaise who blows her a kiss, then sits next to Greg, who moves over to give her more space to lean on the wall.

"I think you all know Astoria," Hermione sit cross legged in the chair, Draco has draped himself over one of the chair's padded arms and is balancing himself, one foot on the floor, arm behind Hermione.

"Where's the other one?" asks Theo.

"Daphne and I haven't had time for our little chat yet. Or do you mean Miss Lovegood?" Hermione looks at him. He's made his displeasure about trusting an "outsider" more than clear. "Be nice, Theo."

When Luna does come in she's got an armload of red roses and is wearing what looks to be about 3 different sundresses layered on each other. "I brought you these." She gives one to Theo, who's moved to within inches of her side and is looking down at her. He closes his hand around the stem and starts an elaborate bow, then swears as a thorn thrusts into his finger.

"Fuck!" He glares down at the blond who just shrugs and says, "Pretty things have thorns. You should be more careful."

Blaise, when handed his rose, breaks each thorn off and hands them back to Luna, who smiles at him and blushes. Pansy rolls her eyes and sticks the stem of the rose in her bag. Astoria simply thanks her. Greg mumbles something, then hands his rose to Astoria.

"My love is a red, red rose," Luna hands the rest to Hermione, who laughs and responds, "That's newly sprung in June? Or did you just hope to make Theo bleed?"

"I don't think blood is the problem anymore, not here anyway," Luna settles down in the center of the circle.

"It damn well is," Theo mutters, sucking on his finger.

"So… Luna," Pansy narrows her eyes. "Why would you want to join us, anyway? This isn't the flower club. We're planning on, I don't know, overthrowing the government and running wild around the halls of power. Not really your thing."

"Yeah, I thought you were a member of the Order," Greg mutters.

"Not really," Luna smiles at him. "People think I'm strange. They don't tend to want me to join them."

"Go figure."

"Theo," Hermione warns him.

"Lady," he mutters acerbically before turning back to the girl. "Why do you want to be here? We're not your type."

"I don't have a type." She cocks her head to the side. "It's the vampire thing. The Order has been almost wholly taken over by vampires." Pansy chokes back a laugh and Greg looks at Astoria who shakes her head. Blaise has become fascinated by the laces of his shoe.

"I… what?" Theo looks at her, then at Draco and mouths, "are you kidding me?"

"So," Luna smiles at Blaise, "shall we martyr ourselves? Fling ourselves heedless into the bloody meadows and rouse the people to overthrow the tyrant?"

"I was hoping to accomplish this sans martyrdom," Hermione raises her eyebrows.

"You won't, though."

"Anyway," Hermione says, commanding attention. "Luna is going to be working on a long term side project with Theo. Tonight, however, is really just a chance to get to know both her and Astoria, to welcome them to our merry band. Neither of them are going to be at most meetings so enjoy this time but, as the saying goes, don't get attached. There's wine in the kitchen."

. . . . . . . . . .

They're washing up and Hermione has her hands plunged into the water when Theo says, "I don't trust her."

"Astoria?"

"No, the other one. She's too batty to be reliable." He leans up against the counter and with a flick of his wand finishes the dishes. "Would you stop that mindless chore and listen to me."

"It's soothing." Hermione turns to him, hands dripping as she reaches for a towel.

"Have Draco soothe you; you shouldn't be doing dishes like some muggle." Theo shakes his head. "She's unstable. Did she really pass the examination?"

Hermione hesitates. "She… her mind is hard to read. It wanders."

"Color me unsurprised. Don't let sentiment weaken you, Hermione. You want one of your old friends to join you, some connection to the past. You're not going to get it. If you're the _Dark Lady_ former warriors for the light aren't going to sign on. They're just not."

"And you're prejudiced against her."

"Lady," Theo drops to his knees in the kitchen.

"So you're being formal?" This was, she thought with some annoyance, one of the downsides of the vaguely feudal title; clever would-be vassals could exploit the implied relationship and Theo was nothing if not clever.

"If I have to prostrate myself and lick your feet to get you to listen, that's what I'll do, so, yes, I'm being formal. She's a liability. I'm begging you, Lady, to get rid of her, or at least limit her access. Don't trust her. Use her if you have to, but don't let her know what you're doing."

"No one knows all of what I'm doing except maybe you and Draco, and I doubt even you see all the threads." She shakes her head. "Get up, Theo. The floor is filthy after tonight's little gathering and I don't get off on literally having my boots licked." He stays, stubbornly, on his knees, and she swears. "Get up."

"Not until I know you're listening to me."

"You don't do subordinate well."

"A strange thing to say to a man on his knees," he looks up at her. "And if you wanted a mindless underling, you should have asked Greg to stay late, not me. In private you get my real opinions, not flattery. She's dangerous. She's fixated on her delusions – vampires, my arse – and weird poetic gestures. She's – "

"She's a woman with access to private printing presses, Theo. She has the know-how and the technical capability to run off enough pamphlets to send one to every potential conservative in England. When it's time for your little research project to come to light, we'll need a more reliable way to get that information into every home than Pansy's society pages or the _Daily Prophet_." She looks down at him. "Now get up."

"Let me look into other options. Please."

She closes her eyes and inhales sharply before she sighs and looks at him with resignation. "Fine. Go forth and look into other printing options. Now _get up_."

"Thank you, Lady." He takes the towel from her hands as he gets up and makes one of his courtly bows over her hand, eyes on hers. "I live to serve."

"I swear, you live to be a torment," she mutters.

"I live to see your goals, _our goals_, come to fruition. And that… fruitcake … is a mistake."

"He's got a point." Draco has been silent until now, standing in the doorway. "She's dotty, always has been. We said from the beginning – you said – that the inner circle had to be absolutely trustworthy and she's just not. Greg may be an idiot, but he'd die for this. She wouldn't."

"Don't insult Greg; he may be a hammer to your scalpel but you will not insult any of our core group. Will not. And I'm not having this argument over the sink." Hermione stalks back to the living room and throws herself into the chair. "Actually, I'm not having this argument."

"Because we're right," Draco follows her, "and you're much too clever to argue with two people who are both right."

"I will - hand me that book – accede to Theo's request and keep her isolated. And if you should find another private printing option I will be open to it. But – "

Theo hands her the book with both hands. "_Principles of Accounting_? Scintillating."

" – you can't have them back, Hermione." There are times Draco finds the lack of other chairs in the room really irritating, and this is one of them. He can stand in front of her, like a petitioner, or sit at her feet, but he can't just pull a chair up and try to force the interaction as equals. "The trio, your little resistance group, it's all gone. You aren't a sweet, little schoolgirl anymore and this isn't a simple battle against an obvious villain. This is revolution and you're going to get your hands dirty and none of those people, none of those great and good people who you loved when you were twelve, see in shades of grey. They aren't going to play, not this game, and if you would just open your eyes you'd know that. Who else would you try to pull in? Neville?"

"Too in love with nobility," she snorts.

"Exactly. Potter?" he persists.

"Harry wasn't interested."

"You asked _Harry Potter _to help you overthrow the Ministry." Theo starts to laugh. "That was an…interesting idea, if by 'interesting' you mean 'daft'. What did he say?"

"I suppose 'recoiled in horror' might sound a bit dramatic but it's probably a pretty good description of his response. I obliviated him, of course." She frowns. "I wonder if some fragment of a memory of that is what triggered his desire to run for office. I wish he weren't doing that, he's forcing my hand."

"Hermione, Lady," Draco settles on sitting in front of her. "You can't have them back, not in the inner circle. They may support you – anyone who sees that orphanage should condemn the Order, and not just because it's filled with blood sucking parasites - "

"Though, metaphorically speaking, it is," Theo interjects, then looks at the roses Luna left, still in a pile on the floor, and murmurs, "_My love is a red, red rose_. Just - bugger me."

"Not tonight, I've got a headache," Draco quips.

Theo snorts and points at the roses. "She's not quite as insane as I thought."

"What are you talking about?"

"It was a bloody metaphor. She was being convoluted, not insane, the dotty bitch. And Blaise gave her back the thorns from his and then they left together and - " Theo starts to sputter.

"Why does that bother you?" Hermione looks down at her accounting textbook. "Greg and Astoria are probably off doing the same thing. At least I hope they are. I'd like to encourage Greg's little tendre."

"Why?" Draco looks at her then shakes his head. "Never mind, I probably don't want to know." He sighs and leans his shoulder up against the chair. "Metaphor or wholly insane, I still don't trust her. I think you're blinded by your history with her, just like you are with Potter."

"I'm taking care of Harry." She reaches one hand down and he reaches up and takes it, idly twines his fingers in and around hers.

"I wish you'd let me just kill him. Or at least hurt him. Think of it as a present to me," he wheedles.

"Cultivate patience, Draco. It's a virtue." She looks up at Theo. "You're still here?"

"Have you taken my counsel, Lady?"

"I have."

"Then, with your gracious permission, I'm gone." And he is.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N**

"_My love is like a red, red rose / That's newly sprung in June" from _A Red Red Rose_ by Robert Burns. The actual poem uses a simile but I needed a metaphor so Luna misquotes. Sorry. _

_Thank you so much to my lovely reviewers: Chester99, dulce de leche go, LadiePhoenix99, my name is mommy, and Pank98. I am always thrilled to get and read your feedback; as I say every time, you fill my day with smiles._

_Thank you thank you thank you, everyone, for continuing to read this, and comment and enjoy; your kindness and support are wonderful._


	8. Chapter 8 - Plotting and Fighting

"Are you sure," Hermione asks Astoria. "It's a lifelong sacrifice." She glances at Greg, who's standing slightly behind the beautiful woman, head down, staring at his feet. "And you'll be condemned, you know, as a wanton and a homewrecker."

Astoria juts her chin out, jaw set. "I'm sure. I stand with you, Lady. You are bringing light back to your world. Hope back to our people. Don't deny me this."

"And you, Greg? It's a grand romantic gesture, certainly, but you'll spend your whole life in the fallout."

Without looking up he says, swallowing hard, "I'm not a smart man, Lady. I'm not perceptive, or clever, or wise. You can't use me to hold down a corner of the Ministry for you, I can't design strategy, I can't even write. I want to help you eliminate the mudblood loving Order, I do, and I know I'm not… but, I can do this."

"Do you love her," Hermione asks, gently. "I can't let you be her salvation in this if you don't, no matter how loyal I know that you are."

"I do," he whispers.

"Astoria, are you sure you can do it? He has to remember, and the pregnancy has to take."

The woman smiles, "I'm sure."

"Very well, then." Hermione steps forward and puts her hand on Astoria's cheek. "You are my loyal servant. Know that you have earned my pleasure and gratitude and, when we have won, you shall be rewarded. Greg." The man looks up, a fanatic's gleam in his eyes. "You as well. Your faithfulness and devotion serve me well."

She steps back, "Go, both of you. I look forward to news of your success."

The pair leave the flat, watched not just by Hermione but also by a pair of cool, grey eyes.

"You've turned her into a whore, him into a cuckold, and they're thanking you for the privilege." Draco turns to Hermione after they've left. "You use your favorites hard."

She throws herself back down into her chair, head thrown back and eyes hard. Without looking at him she starts to pick her hair out of a tight crown of braids, starts taking off what he thinks of as her 'dark lady' costume. He suspects she really misses tatty jumpers and trainers. Soon her hair will be down, her shoes off, and she'll dismiss him, her not quite fiancé. "I use you worse than any of them." Her tone mocks him even as it simmers with self-loathing. "Engaged to a filthy mudblood, how can you stand it, being a mudblood lover? How does it feel, tainting yourself with me? Do you ever wonder if the end goal is worth the contamination?"

"That's not fair," he looks at her. "I have never, not once, mentioned your blood status since we started this. You know why? Because it doesn't fucking matter to me. Maybe it did when I was twelve, but things change. I'm an adult who's been through hell and who's bloody well capable of appreciating your talents. Has it ever occurred to you that - "

"Oh yes, well, fine. You can manage to overlook my filthy blood when it suits your ends, Malfoy. So noble of you." She cuts him off, hurls the words back at him.

"Starting to bother you, the tools we've picked? Or do you just not like getting dirt on your hands so now you're lashing out at me? That isn't fair." His mouth narrows into a thin line, "And we're on a first name basis, remember? Is it your goal to insult me on every possible level today?"

"It's how all of you think. I've known you since you were eleven, _Draco_. I'm not exactly ignorant of your prejudice."

"When I think of how infuriatingly dense you can be when you want to, and then how much stupider the average person is, I… I swear, Hermione, right now I'm considering whether I'd live through slapping you, and even if I didn't whether it'd be worth it. Yes," he runs his hand through his hair and glares at her, "you are not what my family would have wanted for me, you know that and I'm sure even if you hadn't before my mother made it uncomfortably clear when you two met. And, yes, I considered your birth inferior for many years but you might – might - consider doing me the courtesy of believing that I am capable of changing my opinions. Have you missed that I think you're brilliant and beautiful and dangerous and fascinating? Really? Have you missed that you might as well bloody own me? At what point did you stop paying attention to - "

"I haven't missed what you all think of my type, that I'm beneath you all, worthless, filthy - "

"I… if you do not stop talking about yourself like this, I am going to - "

"Do what? Deny it again? It's what you all think." She's almost screaming now, all the tension of cultivating the blood issues erupting out of her.

"We did this on purpose," he hisses, stalking towards her. "You and I set this game in motion with every intention of using their prejudice and it's working and I'm sorry some of your closest followers are ignorant fools and I'm sorry every idle slur they make hurts you. I truly am. But do not _dare_ assume that I am the unthinking bigot Greg is." He grabs her chin, glares at her. "You've rummaged through every mind in the Company except mine. You want to know what I think of you, want to truly know? Stop telling me I despise you and actually check. Why hold back, madam?" He searches her eyes even as he grips harder. "You know how to pick through my brain like a bag of penny candy. Do it."

"You're hurting me."

"Good. Do it."

"What makes you think I even care enough to want to know?"

"I'd never have thought you'd be such a coward," he taunts, goading her. "Are you afraid to discover I'm telling the truth when I say I bloody well adore you, or is what you're afraid of that I'm just using you?" And then she's in. He can feel her furiously push through the entry into his mind, feel the scraping pain as she forces her way from one emotion, one thought, to another. Sorting, discarding, looking for proof of his lack of regard. It occurs to him that pushing her into this, however angry he may have been, however unbelievably furious she'd made him, was a very bad idea indeed and that's when he starts to wonder if he's going to survive this intact; he's never noticed anyone else so much as flinch when she enters their heads but she's ripping him into tiny pieces and they float away on the wind. I float away, he thinks, like a butterfly. Like dandelion fluff. Floaty. Everything's so bright and pretty. He's never noticed that her floor is so soft. That's nice. It's good to have a soft floor.

At some point he realizes his forehead is pressed to the floor and that it's not soft. It is, in fact, rather hard and his head is pounding. On the other hand, he's in one piece again and his thoughts are his own and he's not floating away anymore, so there's that. "You told me," he breathes through the pain, "on our first date that I belonged to you. Wish you'd listened to yourself, spared me this. Brightest witch of our age and all."

"I'm so sorry," she whispers.

"Don't be sorry." He struggles to sit up, then changes his mind and just shifts so he's lying on his side, cheek rather than forehead pressed into the hardwood. "'s'okay. I'm yours to destroy. I would prefer," he shudders, " if you didn't do that again, though. Please." Things look really interesting from this angle, he thinks. There's more dust under that armchair than he'd realized, along with a sock. Why, he wonders, do socks always seem to separate? Why would a sock want to hide away under a chair, anyway? It's a nice chair, he's always thought, and being the only one in the room manages to imply 'throne'. Still, he should nag her to clean that dust up. Dark queens aren't supposed to live in dusty flats with mismatched socks. Doesn't fit the image. He tries to pick his head up again, which is a terrible idea except that suddenly there's a lap under his head and Hermione's fingers are stroking his forehead and that's actually quite lovely. He wishes she liked him for more than his plotting. It would be nice to be valued for more than blood, more than guile.

"Pick your head up, just a tad," she's whispering and she's supporting him and holding a glass to his lips. "Drink it." When he does, because when dark ladies hold things to your mouth and bid you drink that's what you do, the fog that has settled around him burns away taking most of the pain with it.

With clarity comes the realization that, yes, he really is lying on the floor with his head in Hermione's lap. "Bitch," he mutters. "That really bloody hurt."

"Don't move, it might get bad again." She's put the glass down and is stroking his hair again. "I'm sorry."

"For what? For being so uncivil as to practically _torture_ me to determine whether I was being truthful? Couldn't you have just, I don't know, done whatever it is you do to everyone else instead of shredding me? Merlin, I'm in pieces all over your floor." He pauses. "There's a sock under your chair." They're silent for a while and then he adds, grudgingly, "Thank you for the pain medication."

"It wasn't my intention to harm you. I don't," she hesitates. "I don't know what happened. I don't know why it was different. It shouldn't have felt like anything, I wasn't trying to make it hurt."

"I guess I really am your favorite. Lucky me."

"You are," she's still stroking his hair and he thinks he should tell her to stop, that she can't simply pet away what she'd done but as that would involve moving out of her lap he just lets himself feel her hand, slowly running through his hair, stroking his forehead. "I -" she's groping for words, "it's awful to hear them, you know. 'You'd never touch her if she really were a filthy mudblood.'"

"It's what we counted on," he mutters into her leg.

"I know." Her hand stops and he moves to sit up. "It's still hard to hear over and over again and not think, 'Well, it's how they all think, it's how he thinks, he's just swallowing his disgust to get the job done.' I didn't want to get attached to someone who just… who hates me, whose skin crawls at having to touch me."

He pulls himself over to her, lowers his head, very carefully, onto the top of her hair, breathes in the smell of her. "I assure you, I enjoy every moment I spend in your company. Almost every moment," he corrects himself. "I didn't especially care for the last 15 minutes or so."

"I…" she's twining her hands in her lap and he puts one hand over them, stopping the movement. "I'm so sorry. I… this… can you forgive me?"

"Just, promise me you won't do it again." He pulls her, then, into his lap and she slumps back against him, sad and guilty. "Hey." He wraps his arms around her, "It's okay. I'm okay. Just… not again. Ever."

"I promise," she whispers.

"I don't even especially mind belonging to you most of the time," he closes his eyes and just breathes for a bit, savoring not being in pain, savoring the feel of her leaning against his chest. Finally he adds, "Just… try to take better care of your toys."

"You're not my toy."

"Your tool, then, so very useful in planning political coups." He hates how bitter he sounds. "Your favorite."

"Draco…"

"Tell me," he asks, "do I have any secrets left?"

"I'm sure."

"Any secrets left about my opinion of you, I mean."

"I don't know. Maybe."

"And?"

"I don't know, Draco."

"It's not the same for you, is it?" He masters his voice with rigorous, careful control.

"I don't know what it is for me. I… you _hated_ me. That's not something that just gets magically wiped away, and," her own voice catches a little, "and I _hurt_ you. How can you still - "

He cuts her off. "I just do. A sentiment against my better judgment, I assure you. My admiration for you, on every level, might have been bestowed unwillingly but you should certainly believe me after what just happened when I tell you it's sincere."

"You could try repressing your feelings," she mutters.

"I have."

"Try harder."

"Can't."

"Then what do we do now?"

"We're getting married, Hermione. Is it so awful to contemplate having a husband who -" he breaks off. "Who thinks well of you? I know… I know that after whatever happened with your friends you're convinced you're the one everyone will abandon, the one no one will stand by, but that's not going to happen. Personal loyalty is one of my very few good qualities, you know. Did you miss, while rummaging through my head, that the world could be ashes at my feet and I wouldn't leave?"

"No," she whispers. "That was not unclear. I just – "

He puts his hand under her chin, turns her face up to him. "Do I get anything for the remarkable grace with which I've tolerated your running roughshod over my brain, Lady?"

"I… what do you want?"

He lowers his mouth to hers, murmuring, "Just you. I just want you." She's tense, frozen in place and he pulls back and looks at her. "Wait." He sets her to the side, fetches his jacket, pulls out the small box he's been carting around since he's picked it up. "Hermione," he squats down in front of her. "Look at me."

"This was supposed to be public. Orchestrated," she mutters. "The final proof I'm a wretched pureblood, or that romance conquers all, depending on your perspective."

"I want to do something in all of this just for me, I want this to be private, just between us." He stops to inhale. He's so bloody nervous he's almost shaking. "Marry me, Hermione. And not so we can take over the world, though I look forward to seeing it at your feet. Marry me because you want me in your life, at your side. Marry me because you like me for more than the guile." He's searching her eyes. "And if you don't like me, don't want me, we'll find another way to do the rest. Don't let this be nothing but schemes. Be generous enough, please, to let me have one honest thing."

She looks at him for a long time, so long his thighs ache from squatting, so long he starts to think he can hear his own heart and that the sound of their breathing seems terribly loud. Finally, she holds her hand out towards him.

"Are you sure?" he whispers. "Let me hear the words."

"Yes," she says. "I'm sure."

He closes his eyes, lowers himself down to his knees and she puts the extended hand on his cheek. She's brushing the water away from his cheek and he turns to kiss her palm, hold her hand to his mouth. "Say it again."

"Yes."

"Tell me you want me," he whispers.

"I want you."

"Tell me - " he pauses. "Tell me you like me."

"I," she stumbles over the words. "I find that I cannot be happy without you. You're … I'm not blind to your faults. You're arrogant and condescending but - when I see something I want to share it with you, to catch your eye and see you smile at me, or get outraged and – you're just - you've become some essential part of me. I didn't… didn't want – I thought you still despised me and I would touch you and think, 'I can't have this' and it was like a knife and … yes. Yes, I like you."

He leans his forehead in until it touches hers and sits there, breathing, eyes closed. Finally he slips the ring on her hand.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N – **_Two chapters in one day; I said I had the dramoine chapter all written up and ready to go. Please let me know what you think of the bit of romance/angst in the midst of all the plotting._


	9. Chapter 9 - Meetings and Musings

"Tell me something I don't know about you," Hermione's resting her head in Draco's lap and he's twining curls about his fingers, one at a time. He's grown to really like her flat, despite the lack of furniture. There are, he thinks, many worse place to be than propping himself up against the one overstuffed chair, this woman lying on him, bathed in light from the many windows.

"I like you?"

"I actually already knew that. Try again."

"I'm an elitist prick?"

"Knew that too. You're not very good at this game."

"Oh, a challenge is it, pretty witch." He tugs on her hair and she makes a fake pout. He's silent for a moment, then says, very quietly, "I was terrified of Tom Riddle. Absolutely terrified. I was so numb by the end I couldn't even feel relief he was dead. All I thought was, 'Even prison won't be as bad as this has been.'"

She's looking up into eyes, grey and shuttered against memories. "Why again, then?"

"Oh, you," he blinks away the past. "You're different. Riddle cheerfully tortured people who showed up late to meetings. You aren't evil or insane. Plus, no snakes. I also really dislike large snakes."

"Snakes? You?"

"Watch a snake eat a person and see how you feel about them after that."

"Fair point."

"Also," he bends down and brushes his lips over her forehead, "as I think I mentioned earlier, I like you." She reaches a hand towards him, running her fingers over the edge of his jaw. He turns to kiss those fingers then, groaning, wraps his arms around her and pulls her up. "You," he says, "may be the most interesting women I've met." He runs his tongue around her lips, slips it between them as she parts them under his touch; the kiss begins with the endless tease of two people slowly learning each other, his hands creeping up to support her head, and becomes more and more frantic until she's writhing against him and gasping for air as he bites down on her lower lip. "Yes," he mutters, feeling her respond. "You're definitely interesting."

Her eyes glazed, pupils dilated, Hermione pulls back and looks at him. "I need to – you have to go," she stammers. "Go research or something."

In the street, blood pounding as he grimly heads out to do research as he's been ordered to do, he runs into another man who's watched him exit the building, who intercepts him casually. "Pureblood girlfriend, huh?"

"She's going to kill me before the wedding gets here at this rate," Draco growls.

The man laughs, then catching Draco's eye tugs at his bangs, only half ironically, and says, "Tell the Lady people are ready to stand with her." Then he's gone and Draco's staring into the afternoon sun, blinded.

. . . . . . . . . .

Ginny Potter née Weasley walks past Hermione, turns away and pretends not to see her.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco's settled himself in the back corner of a pub, researching, happily and comfortably alone with dinner on order and a nice pint in front of him when he hears the chair across the table pulled out and looks up at the unwelcome face of Ron Weasley, one of his various women standing behind him.

"She's frigid, you know."

"Your bint?" Draco steeples his fingers together and eyes the woman. Subtlety does not appear to be her forte in either dress or makeup application. "If you say so, though it seems a bit crass to just announce that. Still, not really my problem if your little bird of paradise isn't all you expected."

"No, ferret-face. 'Mione."

Draco snorts before he can stop himself. Without effort memories surface; Hermione's mouth on his, her fingers tangled in his hair, the sight of her with her head thrown back while he places kisses down the line of neck, the sound of her whimpering his name. All this brings his trademark smirk to the surface and he looks at Weasley and wonders, not for the first time, what, exactly, is wrong with the man. Frigid? Really? She's calculating, devious, underhanded, with no respect for rules and has an indifferent willingness to use people along with a terrifying amount of patience but frigid she is not; even without having actually had sex with her – yet - he's quite sure of that. "I was taught that a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. Not about a lady, certainly. Now, if you'll excuse me - " he looks back down at his book.

"What are you doing with her, anyway? She's just a mu.."

"Take care, Weasley." Draco doesn't look up.

"… muggle-born. And since when did you care about the word 'mudblood' anyway?"

"Since I became, shall we say, enamored of Miss Granger. We _are_ adults now, Weasley, at least I am. Been through a war and all that. It changes a person. And, fortunately for me, the lady doesn't hold the boy's childish taunts against the man." He glances back at the woman, who's starting to look more and more uncomfortable as she stands slightly behind the red head. "Weasley, if you really are going to insist on joining me, go get your date a chair."

"She can get her own chair," he sneers just as the woman says, "No, it's okay, I have to go to the little girl's room," and totters off on her too-high heels.

"Your manners are enchanting." The dry tone appears to be totally lost on the other man.

"What are you reading?" Ron grabs at the book. "_Advanced Transubstantiation. _What kind of wanker brings a bloody textbook into a pub?"

"Presumably one interested in the subject matter. This is tiresome; get to your point and leave before I call security."

"Stay away from 'Mione."

"I don't think so." Draco allows a slow, languorous smile to lift his mouth. "In fact, I think I shall continue not staying away from her for a very long time."

"She's not your type!" The redhead narrows his eyes in what must be an attempt to look intimidating. Draco, who's lived with one Dark Lord and has engaged himself to another, albeit a significantly more attractive one, laughs; the idea that he could be cowed by an aggressive drunk is ludicrous. He studies the man who clearly, mistakenly, thinks they are somehow rivals. After several years of leisure, he's got the look of someone who's started to blur around the edges; wealth has not been kind to Ronald Weasley.

"Brilliant? Beautiful?" Draco leans forward and Ron stiffens. "Hermione is very much my type."

"You shouldn't even have the right to say her name, Death Eater scum that you are," Ron mutters.

"Oh, but I do," Draco drawls. "I have the right to say _my fiancé's_ name as often as I want, and to hear her say my name in return, sometimes in some _very_ lovely ways. And," he makes an elaborate pretense of examining his cuticles, "though you may have forgotten this, I was found not guilty in my trial, forgiven because of my youth."

Ron Weasley blanches at the word 'fiancé' but blusters on. "Bought your way out, more likely."

"I assure you, had bribery been effective my father would not have died in prison." Draco looks up. "Besides, surely you're not suggesting the Ministry is corruptible? Not our fair leaders." The neighboring few tables are starting to pay attention to their conversation and Draco wonders if he can successfully goad the man into hitting him without seeming too obviously antagonistic himself.

"If it makes you feel any better, Weasley," he continues, "My intentions are, as they say, honorable; I am, after all, marrying your friend. Excuse me, your former friend. She hates you, you know. Perhaps you'd be so kind as to tell me what you did to her; she refuses to discuss the matter. I have my own pet theories, of course, but without confirmation they're just, err, limp ideas. Blaise – you know Blaise from school, I assume - suggests you have, how shall I put it, performance problems. Could that be why you resent her so much, why you ended things? Embarrassment? They do have treatments for that, you know. The performance issues, I mean, not the resulting awkwardness." He leans forward, as though sharing a moment with a friend, pitching his voice to reach the curious onlookers. "Don't be ashamed, Ronald. It can happen to anyone. I mean, it's never happened to _me_ but you shouldn't be afraid to seek out help."

"I bet the frigid whore hasn't even let you into her knickers!" Alcohol and frustration have pushed Ronald Weasley away from his original, vague goal and firmly into 'making a public fool of yourself' territory. Humph, thinks Draco. You're so easy to manipulate, no self-control at all. Still, even goaded the man shouldn't be allowed such leeway. Be careful, Ronald Weasely, he muses. The lady's hand stays mine right now, but she'll lift her ban on killing you eventually, soon if you keep this up, and when she does I plan to make you beg to die.

"Do you know those terms are pretty much mutually exclusive? 'Frigid' and 'whore' I mean. Try not use words if you aren't wholly sure of their meaning; it makes you look a bit like an idiot. Not to mention, Weasley, while I realize you don't have a lot of experience with women you don't have to pay, some women, especially some pureblood girls, tend to hold out for commitment. That doesn't mean they have the same performance problems you do. And I," Draco smiles coolly, "have no problem waiting. I'll get her for a lifetime, after all. Good things come for those who wait, isn't that the saying?"

"She's a muggle-born!"

"If you say so," Draco shrugs. "You seem very hung up on blood status. Why is that?"

"Because I know you must be using her for something! Just because we aren't close anymore doesn't mean I don't still want to protect her from the likes of you!"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Do you usually protect women by calling them whores? You've taken to doing that quite a bit and, let me give you just a smidgeon of free advice, rethink that strategy. Between the names you call women and the way you treat your date, well, I'd ask if you were raised in a barn but I already know the answer."

"I - "

"Whatever your tragedy is, Weasley, go and pour it into your ladybird's ear, not mine. I'm sure if you pay her enough she'll pretend to care." He looks back at his book.

Weasley makes some inarticulate sound and, without looking up Draco flicks his fingers towards the man, "Shoo."

That's when Weasley hits him.

Draco, who had been watching the man without seeming to as he rose and swung across the table, looks around, blood welling up where his tooth had cut his lip, and notes the hush that's fallen over the pub. "You," he says, able to be very quiet and know the words will be heard in every corner of the now silent room, "have insulted my fiancé, a woman you and your family abandoned after the war. You have pushed her in the street and left her hurt and crying, now you've swung at me after I asked you to leave and, by god, I'd be well within my rights to lay you out flat. But I don't pound on drunks in bars so instead I'll say this: go back to wallowing in your ill-gotten gains. Consider this a fair warning, though: next time, if you're stupid enough to provoke a next time, you'll be the one on the ground in pieces when I'm done. Stay away from Hermione. Stay away from me."

Someone starts to clap, then awkwardly stops when no one else joins in. Draco bows in the direction of the sound, then signals his waitress. "If you could pack my dinner to go, love, I'd appreciate it." She scurries off and Draco touches his lip, looks at the blood on his hand, then at his antagonist, standing there, breathing hard. "Out of breath after one swing, Weasley? Maybe you should consider hitting the gym."

"I hate you, Malfoy," the man mutters.

Draco shrugs, an elegant motion. "I'd probably hate you too, if I bothered to give you any thought."

. . . . . . . . .

"So, what do you think of her?" Hermione looks at Blaise across the table where he sits, one hand wrapped around a mug of some foamy drink that might have had a coffee bean waved near it once. Maybe.

"Personally, aesthetically, or do you mean do I think she's a liability the way Theo does?"

"How about all of the above."

He frowns and dips one of the biscotti into his drink. "She's… she's downright batty, Hermione. I can't tell when she's being cryptic and playing word games for the intellectual pleasure it gives her and when she's just looking at a different world than the one I'm seeing. I like her, don't get me wrong. She's a hellcat in bed – begging your pardon – and she's bloody gorgeous, but she's just… off… somehow. If you asked me whether I wanted to date her, I'd say absolutely. Do I want to trust my life to her in a carefully held conspiracy? No. Not really."

He sighs and frowns, "I don't know how much you know about genetics, but – "

"Quite a bit, but assume I know nothing and spell out what you're thinking."

"Her family tree, my family tree, all of us, the lines are so tangled in on themselves you'd think you were looking at a Jackson Pollack. If we were breeding dogs we'd be sure to add in fresh blood. But for ourselves? We'd rather risk disease, infertility or being flat out crazy than bear the social stigma of marrying a half-blood. You've heard Pansy go on and on and on, I'm sure; she's a bore on the subject. I cannot tell you how much I pity whoever gets saddled with her." Blaise shakes his head. "You aren't thinking of trying to pair me up with her the way you've pushed Astoria and Greg together, are you?"

Hermione snorts. "I had a reason for Astoria and Greg and, besides, he was already head over heels for the woman. I like you too much to try to marry you off to a woman you don't like. I'll trust you to find your own wife."

Blaise looks relieved, and goes on. "Anyway, enough generations of inbreeding and you end up with the Blacks, who are unstable, the Malfoys, who are almost wholly infertile and so it goes. There's a reason, you know, that Draco's an only child and it wasn't for lack of trying to get the 'spare' part of 'heir and a spare'. The Lovegoods are just batty; her father was batty, Luna's batty. As breathtaking as Luna is, I admit I'm slightly afraid if I get too involved one day she'll decide I'm infested with some imaginary parasite or something and kill me in her attempt at a cure."

"How would you solve it?" Hermione's leaned forward and is watching the man intently. "The inbreeding issues, I mean, not Luna. Given the problems with muggle-borns."

"Personally? I'll find some nice three-quarter blood girl, someone who isn't her own second cousin. Sure, the family won't be listed in official books of the purest of the pure, but our kids will be less likely to die in infancy and everyone but the highest-handed sticklers will consider them pure-bloods anyway."

"So, it's less blood you're concerned about than…"

"Look, you grew up with muggles." He interrupts her. "What was it like when you first arrived at Hogwarts?"

"Difficult," Hermione murmurs.

"Exactly. Didn't know the customs, didn't know who any of the players were. You probably didn't know what makes an acceptable Ostara gift, or why the school downplayed the historical bits of Samhain and made it all about candy. If you hadn't been such an unbelievable swot you would have never figured any of it out; most muggle-borns never do. And that's the problem; you can't take someone at 11, throw them into a strange culture, and then expect them to never tell anyone from their 'real life' about it. What did you tell your family?"

"I didn't. I didn't really talk about school with my," Hermione hesitates, "parents. And I didn't have a lot of friends in primary so… spending every holiday with the Weasleys made it easier too."

Blaise makes a disgusted sound. "I hate those people."

"More than muggle-borns?"

"You can't help who your parents were," he snorts. "But they chose to be blood-traitors. Don't tell me you liked being their little faux muggle pet? 'Ooooo, tell us about muggle stuff we don't understand, and then when we're bored of you, out with yesterday's trash you go.' I'll bet you good money when the time comes your Ron marries a pureblood; he'll slum for a hobby but, just like his muggle-loving father, he'll marry pure." Blaise looks up at her. "Now that you qualify, want him back?"

"I could kill you right now," she offers and he laughs at her expression.

"Draco was right, you really do hate him, don't you?"

"Blaise," Hermione narrows her eyes at the man, who's biting off the end of his sodden biscuit. "Why do you hate muggles and muggle-borns?"

"Filthy little bastards are dangerous," he mumbles around a mouthful of biscotti. "'scuse me." He swallows. "They're a risk. Mudbloods, their real loyalties are always going to be to their families, that's the way people are. The people who put band-aids on your knee when you're four? Those are the people you love. No one really thinks the muggle brats don't go home and tell their parents about magic, that's insane."

"What about me?" She sips her drink and eyes him. "Do you think my loyalties are to my – parents? They were, after all the people who raised me."

"Maybe you would have been at fourteen, or even sixteen. Loyal to them, I mean." Blaise looks at her seriously. "But you went through a war, Hermione. We're all different now." He swallows hard. "Are you questioning my fealty to you? Because, I swear - "

"I know," she puts her hand across the table, over his. "And I have no concerns about your faithfulness." She smiles at his relieved exhale. "I'm trying to understand the prejudice, what it stems from. Think about it logically, Blaise. If we don't bring in fresh genetic material, we'll die out, inbred to extinction. It's a problem we need to solve. You tell me you think muggles, muggle-borns, are dangerous to witches?" Hermione allows a trace of disdain to creep into her voice, watches the man carefully.

"Damn right they are. Did you know people sometimes _kill_ magical children trying to 'drive the demons out'? Everyone knew Potter's family locked him up, thought he was a freak. If they - enough people like them - knew there was a whole world of us? Living right under their noses? It was different when all they had was sticks and rocks and knives; magic was so much more powerful. But now?" Blaise shakes his head. "Every dirty mudblood could be the one whose parents, whose friends, kick off another round of witch hunts."

"We'll take it all back, Blaise," she murmurs. "I promise. I'll make the world ours again, and I'll make it safe for us. Power is ours to wield, after all, and we shall not be denied. Not by money-grubbing blood traitors, not by the Ministry."

"Lady," his tone is low, circumspect. "I am your grateful servant."

She smiles at him as he leaves but, truthfully, Hermione occasionally wonders if some of her freshly minted vassals were over-exposed to medieval romances as children. They seem to revel in feudal niceties; if she's not careful they'll be asking for formal fiefs when she seizes – well, re-seizes - their childhood estates instead of being happy with simple possession. The Nimue metaphor seems more and more apt as time passes but she hopes no one expects her to start lobbing swords at them from ponds. She reaches over and takes the rest of the biscotti and dunks it into her tea. Still, "Lady" does have an awfully nice ring to it. She thinks about Ginny, sashaying by on the street and refusing to so much as say 'hullo'. "Dark Lady" has an even nicer ring; no wonder the mad fool had liked his title so much. Patience, she cautions herself. As you've told Draco, it's a virtue, and everything will come to you in time, including Ginny's head on a platter if you decide you want it there. First, we discredit a few politicians and get fairly elected, then we remake society.

. . . . . . . .

"Bingo." Theo looks at the meticulous notes in the folder. That people are stupid enough to document their sins amazes him, but he'd known he'd find proof eventually. He pulls out the muggle camera Hermione had given him and begins to take neat photos of every page, one at a time.

. . . . . . . . .

**A/N **_Fun fact: I am my own fourth cousin._

_A tip of the hat to Casablanca, which Draco loosely quotes. ""You despise me, don't you?" "_…_If I gave you any thought, I probably would_."

_Thank you to my wonderful reviewers. I got somewhat tangled up in my own head, and thus thoroughly disorganized, so if I did not personally thank you for your review via PM I am very sorry. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Know that I utterly adore every last review, and PM, and follow. You are my sunshine and my sweetened coffee. _

_Thank you, especially: pagyn, LadiePhoenix007, Naysaykaybay, Pank98, Guest, Chester99 (who is SO on to my entrapment subplot) my name is mommy._


	10. Chapter 10 - Revelations from Theo

"He hit you?" Hermione looks apoplectic and Draco laughs and tweaks the paper out of her fingers. There, in the gossip column, a short article details his fight with Weasley. It's quite nice, actually, describing Weasley as 'uncouth' and 'violent' while he's painted as bit of a chivalric figure.

"I'm fine, sweet girl. I've been beaten far worse." He wraps his arm around her and tugs her into his side, leans down and kisses her, the brushes his nose against hers and grins. "You wouldn't believe how hard I had to work to get him to do it, too. I had to actually tell him to 'shoo' before he worked up the nerve to do more than bluster."

"What did he want," she sounds worried. He pulls back and looks at her. Her eyes are searching him, and, he can't believe this, but she's nervous about something.

"He wanted to warn me away from you. I'm Death Eater scum, shouldn't even say your name and so on. He might as well have copied his words from some melodrama; they weren't exactly original." He tucks a stray curl behind her ear. "Why?"

"No reason," she leans back into him.

"Don't lie to me, Hermione."

"It ended badly, is all." She's mumbling into him. "I'm sure he's got things to say that aren't very nice."

"He's already called you my mudblood whore. I don't think it gets much worse." He tips her chin up. "Hey. I'm yours, remember? No matter what. There's nothing – absolutely nothing – that Weasley could tell me about you that would change that." He lowers his mouth back down to hers, murmuring against her skin before he slips his tongue into her parted lips, "If he upsets you this much, I could kill him. It'll look like an accident, I swear." Then she's curved into him as he slowly, lazily explores her mouth, as he reaches behind her and tangles his fingers into her hair and feels her press into him with more urgency, as she becomes more aggressive.

"Get a room, you two." Theo walks in and rolls his eyes.

"Who gave him permission to just come and go?" Draco asks, his eyes narrowing.

"I did," Hermione mutters. "Which was apparently a mistake. Why are you here unannounced, Theodore?"

"I have a present for you." Theo tosses Hermione a folder and waits for her to pull out the contents. Draco catches his eye and raises an eyebrow and Theo mouths "wait".

Hermione pulls out a stack of 8X10 prints, each a reproduction of a document. She looks at the first one a long time, then more quickly at the second. Finally she flips through the whole stack. "This is… really good work. You were careful?"

"Shot them with the muggle camera, printed them from a computer in a muggle flat rented under an assumed name. I bought everything on the black market and I've never used magic in the flat, there's no way to trace it. It's as clean a set of copies as one could hope for."

Draco holds out his hand and Hermione hands over the pile. Page after page delineates fees skimmed from the muggle artifact division and hidden in the orphanage budget. There's also lists of seized property and, of all things, government farm contracts. "How does this all fit together," he asks.

"That's what we have to figure out," Hermione smiles at the man. "This is a big piece, though. We know where the extra money is coming from and I bet when we comb through these we'll find all sorts of improprieties. Theo, I could kiss you."

"Kiss my best mate's fiancé? You want Draco to murder me on the spot or something? And here I was flattering myself that you liked me." Theo grins at her.

"But what are they _doing_ with it?" Draco demands.

"Not food aid," Theo says archly, and Draco looks at him. "Muggle Artifact Registration fees are supposed to go to feed the poor. In theory it's a straight pipeline; people who want muggle tech pay fees and those fees go to help the less fortunate. That's what they're skimming from. Makes sense, really. It's a totally new revenue stream, no built in safe-guards to work around. Instead some, maybe all, is getting diverted into the orphanage budget."

"Where it goes into a black hole."

"Creative accounting."

"How did you _find_ this?" Draco demands.

"Oh," smiles Hermione, "At first we were looking for proof that post-war property seizures weren't all legal and then Theo found some vague references to this and so we both started digging."

"So that's why you started volunteering."

"Exactly. Though I still haven't found anything nearly as useful as this, really just stumbled into more problems. This is good work, Theo. I'm really, really pleased with you."

"You mean you didn't start out planning to rescue those kids?"

She shakes her head. "No, but they can't stay there; it's a disgrace. What's power for if not to fix exactly that?"

"Well, you can fix it once you're in office. Unfortunately, for right now they stay oppressed. It's hard to get people riled up in righteous indignation over a problem that's already solved." Theo starts gathering up his photographs, slipping them back into the folder. "Now that you two have made it official, by the way, who's going to walk the bride down the aisle?"

"I don't know." Draco's flung himself down into the chair and sounds frustrated. "I'd thought Harry Potter would be a nice symbolic choice but - "

"He won't be attending." Hermione interjects.

"Right. So, with one set of parents off in Australia..."

"…and estranged."

"And what with the others not really existing," Theo adds, putting the folder into his bag, "I can see it's a tricky problem. Would you - "

"What did you say?" Hermione's voice is low and the man looks up to see two wands pointed at him. Draco's is, perhaps, pro forma, but Hermione's mouth is set in a grim line. Theo reacts immediately to the danger and drops to his knees, bag crashing to his side, his hands held out in a pose of utter and instant submission. He's a man who's survived both a Death Eater father and a final, horrible year at school; he knows when to bow to someone's temper, when he's made a terrible mistake.

"I thought you knew I knew," he closes his eyes and flinches as she advances on him and shoves her wand into his neck.

"Knew what?"

"That," his voice hitches as he inhales sharply, "that you're not actually a foundling. That you're…"

"That I'm what?"

"Exactly what we thought in school," he whispers. "Please, I thought you knew. I… it doesn't matter to me. It's, the blood status, it's just a tool, just… I put myself in your hands knowing. Lady, please. I'm sorry. Don't…do I beg for forgiveness? Tell me what you want from me, please."

"Who else knows?" She's walked around him, is lightly tracing her wand across his shoulders, down one arm, under his chin. He can feel the tingle of magic, a line left behind her teasing caress and he shudders. "Look at me."

He opens his eyes, looks up the line of her wand, up into her eyes, bearing down on him, relentlessly. "Who else?"

"No one," he's caught, a deer trapped by light, and even as he hears his heart echoing in his ears he repeats himself, "No one. Just me. I knew as soon as Draco told me that he was lying, evading. It was… please… it was," he closes his eyes again and she takes her wand and hits him, hard, across the cheek.

"Look at me when you talk."

"I don't care," he finally cries, desperately, looking at her. "Whether you're a pureblood or…"

"Or a mudblood?" her voice is so very cool. "You, pureblood scion of an impeccable line, don't care that your Dark Lady springs from the mud? You don't care that I'm everything you despise? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe."

He struggles to keep his composure. "I don't despise you; the Order, yes, the Weasleys, all of them, all their ilk. Yes. But not you. Never you. I thought at first you were a figurehead, that Draco was holding you out as a tool in his own plot, then I came to understand that you're the one doing this. But I put my life in your hands that first day, and I knew about your background, that the orphan story was just... I knew. Lady, you're… no one knows but me, I'd swear it. I don't care who your parents are, I don't care who your family is. I… you're… what you're doing, what you're planning, it's what... the storm is coming, a new beginning for our world and you're the one… please." He lowers his head so his face presses against her wand, closes his eyes again.

"He's telling the truth, Lady." Draco's voice is careful and controlled. "He's known; he just tacitly agreed to the lie because it was a useful tool. I'd vouch for him."

"How many others," she spits. "It's a small circle, do they all know?"

"No." Draco's very quiet. "Pansy, Greg, the rest of them, their prejudice is so ingrained they wouldn't be malleable if they knew. Blaise too. Theo's the only one who put all the pieces together and saw what we were doing with your blood status. The rest really think you're some abandoned child, a pearl I found in the gutter. They're tools. Theo's," he pauses. "Theo's one of us."

"What makes you different, Theo." Her wand is digging back into his neck and he thinks about breathing, trying to steady his breathing. "Why don't you care?"

"We need a leader, Lady. I'm not," he looks up at her again, "I'm not twelve anymore, I'm not stupid enough to turn my back on someone because of a childish prejudice. We're… this thing you are doing… should I say, 'don't overthrow the Order because you aren't the product of nobility?' I'm not going to spit on our Joan because she's a fucking peasant. I'm too pragmatic for that. You're too _good_ at this."

She steps back and looks at him, "Get up." She's still snapping the words out, but her wand is out of his neck and maybe – maybe – she's calming down. He gets up, shakily, but keeps his hands out so she can tell he's not reaching for a wand.

"Does this mean you've decided against killing me?"

"I'm too pragmatic for that," she raises her eyebrows and he smiles a little, hearing her turn his words back at him. "'One of us', huh?" She flicks a glance back at Draco, who's putting his wand away. "I guess this means we should redefine the inner circle to the just the three of us. Do you have any more secrets tucked away you might want to spill in case next time I actually do hurt you?"

"I… no."

"I'm sorry," she puts the wand away. "I have had every reason to believe you, all of you, would spit on me if you knew my actual blood status. That I can only work with people who believe a lie about me is a very odd line to walk." She's biting the inside of her lip, and runs her hand over the red line that's blooming on his cheek where she'd hit him. "Would you like me to heal this?"

"No, it'll be fine." He puts his hand over hers and brings it, carefully, to his mouth. He puts a chaste kiss on the back of her hand. "My life is in your hands, my hands are yours to use; do not apologize to me for my own mistake. I am my Lady's humble servant."

She squints at him, her hand still at his mouth, and finally asks, "Did you all get together and decide on the medieval poetic flair or something?"

Theo drops her hand and steps backwards. "I may have started it. I take it it's caught on?"

"First Blaise, now you. Next thing I know, Pansy's going to show up in a bloody hennin."

"Only if they're featured in some fashion magazine. But," he turns more serious, "the formal address, does it displease you?"

"Why?"

"Why do I ask?"

"No, why did you start it."

"Because people, our people, respond to poetry. They're traditional romantics to the point of absurdity. I mean, quills? Really? Candles? Given the chance to bow their heads to a maiden from a story book, well, more people will respond to that than they will to just another politician. And, I assume, once you get fairly elected you plan to turn the Minister of Magic position into something more… permanent. Have I erred?"

"No," she smiles at him even as she shakes her head and sighs. "You've done very well indeed. And you tell me _I'm_ good at this. Between the two of you I could almost just stand about and look pretty while you plotted around me."

"You did say you encouraged initiative," Theo looks smug. Then, more seriously, "But you're a lot more than a figurehead, even if you make a good one."

"So that's why." Draco's been looking at Theo, thinking. "Not just with the inner circle. You've started rumors a new Lady is rising. I had a man stop me on the street, tell me to tell the Lady the people were preparing to stand with her."

"This is good," Hermione settles down in Draco's lap on the chair and Draco breathes out, shocked at the open affection, but wraps his arms around her and buries his face into the back of her neck. "But, Theo, we need to be very careful. I don't want the Order showing up on my doorstep, accusing me of being anything other than a simple Ministry worker. Pansy's work decries the excesses of this regime, and we can use this - " she points to Theo's bag, lying on the floor where it had fallen, some pictures still strewn about, " – to aid in discrediting their moral authority, to discredit the very structure of our government as inherently corrupting. But - "

"I know," he bends to gather everything back together. "But when I go to seed the crowd the day you are elected I need people who will believe, truly believe, that you are Nimue come again. For that they'll cheer you into power and demand you be handed, if not a crown exactly, then - "

"A hennin?" She laughs.

"A regency, perhaps." He looks very seriously at her from where he's putting pictures back into his bag. "Full power held in trust to be passed to a princeling, darling of the public, child of an aristocratic house and a woman out of myth. With a year in office and a baby and I can have people begging you to take on that mantle but I need to start laying the groundwork now."

Draco mutters, "Before we start making plans for future princes, we still have to find someone to walk her down the aisle."

Theo shifts on his feet a bit. "Would you be comfortable having me do it?" At Hermione's look he adds, "It's not uncommon for a brother to walk his sister down, if the father is, well, unavailable. If I stand _in loco fratris_, as it were, it would be another confirmation that, well…." She's clearly touchy on blood status and he's not sure he wants to proceed.

"That you think I'm pureblood? Even though you really know I'm, what did you call me, a 'fucking peasant'?"

"Also a woman out of myth," Theo rolls his eyes.

Draco snorts. "If Theo walks you down the aisle it'll bloody well imply your father is a Death Eater. He'd be telling the world, at least the people who read every intricate social clue for as many hidden meanings as they can ferret out, that he thinks he's your half brother. Of course, given Nott Senior's proclivities, I can't say he's the least likely candidate."

Hermione looks at Theo, eyes narrowed. "Is there something wrong with you?"

"What?"

"A few minutes ago I had my wand at your throat and now you're proposing some kind of implied adoption. I know the inbreeding can lead to instability and now I'm worrying about you. An unstable third is even worse than someone who might be disloyal because of blood status revelations."

"You think wanting to position myself as the brother of the Dark Lady indicates I might be unbalanced?" He smirks at her.

"Either that or incredibly politically astute."

"Go with astute. If I can't be the king's mistress, the bastard brother isn't the worst second choice." He rubs at his neck where she'd shoved her wand particularly hard. "And, Hermione, I'd be honored to walk you down the aisle. Truly. I would be honored to be your brother, even just by implication. You're a little scary, I admit, but you're almost single-handedly orchestrating the downfall of an entire government. You could have been a part of the little bread and circus show your friends joined and you aren't. This isn't even really your fight; no one's stripped your land from you, the corruption works in your favor and you've had to surround yourself with allies - well, tools maybe – that you know despise you. And for what?"

"For power," she says softly. "Don't ascribe too much virtue to me, Theodore. When we're done I plan to be Caesar. You're all going to give me control of your little world. Maybe a bit bloodier than Caesar, even. Did you know some Byzantine emperors used to make defeated foes drink from the skulls of their former allies? I've always thought that was poetic."

"You shouldn't say things like that," murmurs Draco, tracing his fingers down her arms.

"Too frightening," she asks, turning in his lap to look at him, her eyebrows raised.

"Not exactly. If you want to wait until the wedding you _really_ have to dial it back a little or I'm going to lose my mind."

Theo starts to laugh. "You really are taking this pureblood thing to heart, aren't you." He points at Draco, his arm shaking as he laughs. "You're getting the pureblood girl you deserve, right down to the pure part."

"For a man who was on his knees begging for his life a few moments ago, you're awfully free with the ha-has" Draco mutters.

Theo looks at Hermione and she just shrugs. "The Lady doesn't object," he smirks. "It's hardly my fault you had to go and get engaged to someone actually virtuous." He sweeps a dramatic bow towards said paragon of virtue. "May I offer to help serve your enemies their, err, goblets of wine? Assuming you plan to fill them with wine, my sweet and treacherous Niniane."

"Wine's good." She smiles back at the man. "See, Draco, I'm dialing it back, just for you. A token of my adoration."

"Do I get a token of adoration?" Theo teases, safe in her good mood. "Maybe a reward for my excellent detective work?"

"What do you want?" She arches her brows and smiles in a way that, for the right man, promises long nights of little sleep. Or, read another way, a smile that promises long nights of suffering. His cheek still stings, a welt is rising, and, worse, he knows he's going to lie awake replaying the memory of her wand trailing over his skin; that the memory isn't wholly bad is going to haunt him. He looks at her, sitting on Draco's lap, Draco's fingers twining through her hair, and shudders internally. He wonders, suddenly, if calling on mythic symbolism is such a brilliant idea after all. Fire is beautiful, it's useful, but, no matter how mesmerizing it is, you shouldn't stick your hand in it.

"Maybe," he finally says, "just a promise of leniency the next time you want to kill me?"

"Done." As he's turning to go she adds with a lilt to her voice that chills him, "Assuming I remember in the heat of the moment."

He hears Draco sigh and mutter, "Don't scare Theo, Hermione," and she's laughing.

He turns to find himself suddenly holding an armful of bushy haired girl who's tipping her chin up and him and saying, "I'm just teasing, Theo. Can't a girl tease her brother?"

"Is that officially part of the legend now?" he asks, looking down at her.

"It does solve the 'giving away' problem. And it explains why you're suddenly here all the time. If you found a half-sister, who happened to be marrying a friend - "

"I'd be with one or the other of them all the time." She shrugs in his arms and he kisses her on the forehead. "An orphan, a queen out of myth, and now my sister. You get more interesting every day." He nudges her back towards Draco. "May I go, milady sister? Leave you two to what you were doing before I got here?"

Draco stops Theo one more time before he leaves and asks a single question. "Who's in charge of that muggle artifact department?" He knows the answer even before the man replies.

"Arthur Weasley."

. . . . . . . . .

**A/N - **_That pointed hat with the veil you think of as the clichéd medieval hat in every princess picture ever? That's a hennin._

_In loco fratris = in place of a brother_

_Niniane is another name for the Lady of the Lake._

_. . . . . . . . . ._

_Thank you, again and again, for reading. I cannot tell you how much I love to hear that you like the story. It's tremendously fun to write a Hermione who turns her cleverness towards personal gain. Extra special thanks to everyone who's take the time to review; I appreciate you all so much: Sora Loves Rain, Guest, Chester99, dulce de leche go, my name is mommy, pagyn, LadiePhoenix007 & Pank98._

_I shall now shamelessly encourage you to tell me what you think, especially now that Theo's an equal player in their little game._


	11. Chapter 11 - Another Step Down the Path

"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione sets her tea down and settles her hands in her lap.

"Yes," Narcissa smiles blandly.

"Last time we met - "

"The only time we've met," the woman spoons sugar into her cup and stirs.

"Well, yes, unless you count the time your sister tortured me in your home. Though I suppose we weren't really formally introduced that day, were we?" Hermione smiles at her future mother-in-law with an equally bland countenance and the formidable woman's eyes snap.

"You certainly are a bold little thing, aren't you?"

"My lack of a reticence has been mentioned once or twice, yes. I wanted to ask you, ma'am, more about the fosterage custom you'd mentioned."

"Yes?"

"Quite specifically, if you were to bring a child into your home, a half-blood, say, what would his blood status be."

Narcissa Malfoy sits for a few minutes in silence, studying the composed young woman sitting at her table. The girl's eyes don't waver, she doesn't blush, she doesn't fidget. She just waits for the answer, not the slightest bit unnerved by the long pause.

"He did choose well, I have to give him that." Narcissa says at last. "And there's no clear precedent. Even formal adoption doesn't always overcome the stigma of low blood status, but a child raised in a pureblood home, even a poor one, would always be more accepted than someone raised by muggles. No one would ever call a child I reared 'mudblood.' Which is," the woman raises her tea cup and takes a delicate sip, "what you're asking, is it not?"

"I'm only seeking to understand your customs, ma'am."

"And I am a crumple-horned snorkack," the woman snorts. "Perhaps you can explain to me why my son came home and started to pull books on blood magic, fairies and transfiguration from the manor library. He claims he has a 'sudden interest' in the older magics."

"I would never dispute anything Draco says."

"Balderdash. You are both up to something and it has nothing to do with traditional Pictish charms." Narcissa pauses again and then says, "Lady." She notes that this time there is subtle stiffening in Hermione's posture and nods. "Well then, let us talk about the wedding, shall we? Did you like the fabric swatch I sent over for your dress? I thought a subtle tint of green in the white would bring out some of the golden reds in your hair."

Both women bend down over Narcissa's binder of wedding plans, each having learned something.

. . . . . . . . . .

"You can't marry him," Ron glares at her across the table. Harry's leaning against the wall next to them, beer in hand, watching them both.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione glares right back, stabbing her fork into the shepherd's pie. "Since when do you have the right to tell me what to do? We aren't together anymore. We aren't even friends. I'm just a - what did you call me – oh, yes. A 'mudblood whore'."

"Hermione," Harry says, eyes narrowed. "He's using you. We're trying to help you see reason here."

"Well, the two of you would certainly know 'using' when you saw it," she mutters. "Is that what this meeting is about? Silly me, I thought you might want to mend fences or something but this is just another complaint about how I'm not the person you want me to be, isn't it?"

"Don't be such a bitch, Hermione," Ron mutters, taking another drink from his bottle. "We're trying to protect you."

"Has it occurred to either of you that if I actually needed protection I could get it from the man who _doesn't _call me a whore or a bitch, you know, the one I'm marrying? Or from my," she pauses, mindful even in her fury, "my friend Theo? Or you might even consider that I'm a pretty damn accomplished witch and can bloody well protect myself?"

"Your friend _who?_"

"Theodore Nott," Hermione smiles at them both, a smile that would have worried any of her co-conspirators but that neither Ron nor Harry recognizes. "He's going to walk me down the aisle. We were going to ask you, Harry," she smiles at him, sweetly and insincerely, "but you made it clear that you weren't going to be able to handle that I've moved on."

"You can't be friends with that snake! And he cannot walk you down the aisle." Ron growls. "You have no idea what that means but I do. I forbid it."

"You do what?" Hermione looks at him, her lips pressed tightly together. "Have we fallen into some alternate universe where you have the right to control my actions? Because I somehow missed that."

"Ron, shut up. You're making things worse." Harry pulls out another chair and sits down. "Hermione, I love you. You're my friend but I can't believe that Draco Malfoy and his miserable friends are anything but trouble. Death Eater, remember? Part of a movement that wants to take over the country, kill all the muggle-borns, put a crazy psychopath into power? Remember all of that? He wanted to kill people _like you_. Marrying him is a big mistake; I don't know what he's up to but he isn't interested in you, Hermione. I just don't want you to get hurt."

"Oh, you want to keep me from getting hurt?" Hermione tips her head and examines Harry. "You could have done that when Ron publicly humiliated me. You could have done that when," she gestures towards Ron, "you know."

"Look, I'm sorry," Harry snaps. "But that was years ago. You're obviously fine and, anyway," he mutters, "it's not like you can't be unbelievably difficult so I'm sure it wasn't like you were this innocent victim. And it can't have been that big a deal because you're sitting here, talking to him."

"It can't have been that big a deal?" Hermione's voice is very calm, dangerously so. "I'm going to excuse that because of your childhood. I don't think, after how you grew up, you have an especially good idea of what counts as a 'big deal'. Would it have been a 'big deal' if - "

Ron, impatient with the shift in the topic, reaches across the table and grabs her wrist hard, yanks her towards him and snaps, "You need to shut up and listen to us about Malfoy and, bloody hell, apparently about Nott too."

She looks at his hand, closed so tightly around her wrist the bones are grinding together, and looks up at Ron, his face red and mottled. Without flinching she puts her other hand on her hip, on the end of her wand and Harry, watching her, blanches. "I dare you," she whispers, "I fucking _dare_ you to try it again."

"You cannot – cannot – marry Malfoy. And it was once!" Ron snaps, loosening his grip, "And I said I was sorry, an apology I thought you'd accepted."

"And you also said it would never, _never_, happen again and yet, here you are, holding me in the exact same way that you did right before you hit me. You better pray to whatever gods you believe in that you aren't leaving a bruise right now because if Draco sees a mark on my wrist he will fucking kill you and I won't even try to stop him. Let me go. Right now."

Ron lets go, backs away. "I'm just trying to get you to listen to me. You've changed. That bastard's changed you."

Hermione, breathing heavily, just glares at the man, hand still on her wand..

"You never told him," Harry says, watching her. "Draco doesn't know."

"Well, I didn't want Ron to die, no." She looks at Harry. "Something I never worried about when you found out, speaking of your vast interest in 'protecting' me."

Harry runs his fingers through his hair and looks at her, frustrated. "It was just once, and you guys ended it right after that. I wasn't worried about you. What was I supposed to do?"

"I can't possibly imagine what you might have done when you found out. You're right, you just had no options at all except to go out partying with him while wringing your hands in my general direction. Oh dear, what to do. Ron's volatility finally crossed a line, but, hey, she can be so difficult. I'm sure you took the time to give him a serious talking to in between ogling dancers and making backroom deals."

"Just stop," Harry snaps. "We are trying to get you to walk away from this farce of a marriage because, as hard as it may be to believe given what a judgmental bitch you've turned into, we still care about you. Fuck, 'Mione, even Ginny says you're a horror these days."

"I shall not tell lies," she mocks. "I asked you before, does it bother you? How many generous gifts have you gotten from 'friends' who want you to put in a good word for them at the Ministry. And how about you, Ron?" She turns back to the furious red head. "How's Percy doing as under-secretary these days? Still churning out laws decreasing the amount of silver in a sickle? Does the term 'debased coin' mean anything to you?"

She stops and looks at them; both look, frankly, perplexed at the direction her rant has taken, though Ron's working up to another outrage.

"Don't talk about Percy," he snarls. "You're just some worthless little paper pusher down in the bowels of research and he's actually managing the economy. You can't possibly understand – "

"The war was expensive, 'Mione." Harry's saying patiently, over Ron's outburst. "You aren't really shedding tears that we stripped the bloody Death Eaters of their wealth to pay for it, are you?"

She clenches her teeth and rubs her wrist, back and forth, rubbing circulation back. "I just... I'm just so stupid, I can't believe I thought things would be different this time, that you might actually listen to me – I guess it's true that money makes villains of us all. Just - this conversation is over. You're over. You don't think you're doing anything wrong, fine. You don't trust me to make my own decisions, fine. You can't believe I might actually be happy with Draco because, hey, if you don't like him that's all that should matter to me, right? Well, as it happens, I like him quite a lot and I'm going to marry him and you don't actually get a say in the matter. I think the phrase I'm looking for here is: 'bugger off.'"

"Well," Harry says after she stalks out. "That didn't go as well as I'd hoped."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Hermione leans against the wall outside the pub, rubbing her wrist, trying not to shake. Years later and she still loses her composure she's when faced with Ron without some kind of backup. Without, if she's being honest, Draco. She really hopes this doesn't bruise; he's not going to miss even a magically healed bruise.

The barmaid comes out and, saying nothing at first, hands her a pack of ice. Hermione flashes her a wan smile and holds it up against her wrist. "There's some," the girl says at last, "Who wouldn't miss them that's in power now."

Hermione looks at her. "The time is coming," she agrees. "But not yet. Wait."

"When?"

"Soon," Hermione promises, holding the ice to her wrist. "Soon."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Blaise?" The man looks up from his desk to see Hermione in full Ministry mouse mode. She's wearing a simple black skirt, flats and a white blouse with her hair in a thick braid down her back. She looks, he thinks, like a part of someone's catering staff. Even her voice sounds tentative. Certainly no one would look at this woman and think "power."

"Miss Granger." He gives her his politician's smile. "Is everything all right down in research? Is there something I can do for you."

"If I could borrow a moment of your time?" Her voice ends in an upward inflection making it a weak question and she's fidgeting her feet. One of their co-workers walks by and throws Blaise a sympathetic glance. The man nods, the beleaguered but considerate upper manager, and Hermione closes the door then smiles at him.

"Don't lay it on too thick," he says, with a roll of his eyes. "People do see you with Draco, and it's possible someone knows we're, umm, friends outside of work. Either of those would be hard to reconcile with the creature who just closed that door."

"Ah, true. I'll ease back a little. I had a rotten meeting over lunch, I'm still a little shaken." She leans back, transformed by posture alone into the woman he's following. "I'll be brief. There's a bartender at the pub, the one I went to for lunch. Befriend her. She's a contact for some kind of nebulous underground; she knows to expect you."

"Have you…?" he taps his head.

"Yes, but I obliterated her afterwards so she doesn't remember. She's sincere, but who knows whether everyone she talks to is, so be careful." She absentmindedly rubs at her wrist and Blaise frowns.

"What happened to your wrist?"

"Oh, it's nothing." She flushes, though, and her eye flickers just a little and he snorts.

"You're lying. And if you're actually bothering to lie about it instead of just telling me you twisted it grabbing a book off a high shelf or something down in the archives it is most certainly not nothing." He stands up and starts walking around the desk. "Is this something to do with that 'rotten lunch' you had? Did this woman I'm supposed to befriend hurt you in some way?"

"Of course not!" Hermione looks so shocked he believes her. "She gave me ice for it."

"Why, Lady, did your wrist require ice?" He stands right in front of her and puts his hands out peremptorily. She sighs and slumps a little but holds out both arms for him to look at. The first, with her bracelet, he looks at and drops. The second he stares at longer; the red mark is still faintly visible. "What happened?"

"It will be taken care of," she mutters.

"An insult to you is an insult to all of us," he says with deliberate calm. "An attack on you is an attack on me. The vassalage thing works both ways. What would you do if someone hurt me?"

Oh, he thinks, how her eyes flash at that. "They would die regretting they touched something of mine. Eventually."

"Exactly."

"Blaise. It will be taken care of. Patience." Her voice commands and he nods slowly, reluctantly.

"I'll make contact with this woman," he murmurs, then opens the door. "Is that all, Miss Granger?"

"No, thank you for your help." And, as a slightly less oppressed mouse walks away, he writes a quick note and sends it off.

_Theo – find out who H had lunch with. We might have a problem. ~ B_

. . . . . . . . . .

"How's my favorite junior researcher?" Theo sticks his head into the archives and smiles at Hermione. 

"I don't know who that is," she grins at him, "but I'm fine."

"Want to grab a late lunch with me?"

"Thanks, but I had lunch already." Hermione weighs the book she's holding and frowns at it, clearly distracted from their conversation by the text in her hand.

"Oh, c'mon. Eating at your desk doesn't count."

"No, really. I went down to that pub at the corner, met up with Ron and Harry. Old time's sake and all that." She pushes the book she's been looking at back onto the shelves. "Would you believe we have three copies of this? And it's never been translated?"

"Shockingly, I would believe that. How about tomorrow then?"

"If you insist," she's biting the inside of her lip, pulling out what he assumes is the second copy of the text in question.

He sighs theatrically and says, "All work and no play, Hermione."

"I said okay. Sheesh, Theo. Go away and let me do my job."

. . . . . . . . . .

The three men sit at a filthy table, Blaise tapping on it with his finger.

"I hate this place," mutters Theo. "It's such a fucking dive. Why do we always meet _here?_"

"It's discreet," Draco shrugs.

"Yeah," Theo retorts, "Because no one in his right mind would come here anymore."

"Whatever. Spell out for me whatever it is you two are so bothered about." Draco tips his bottle into his mouth, swallows. "I'd much rather be exploring the depths of sexual frustration than hanging out with you two."

"Would you ever have thought it?" Theo smirks at Blaise. "The players of all players, wrapped around the finger of a woman traditional enough to actually make him wait."

"Sod off, arsehole," Draco grumbles but he's got a smirk of his own that belies his apparent complaints.

"Our fair lady, future dark queen and your affianced bride, had lunch today with Potter and Weasley," Blaise states baldly, bringing them back to the topic at hand. "Where something happened that resulted in her wrist needing ice, which I only found out about because it was still sore when she stopped by to speak to me later."

"What?" Draco goes very still, bottle halfway to his mouth.

"She wouldn't even tell me who her lunch dates were, only that it was 'being handled'. Not by you, I assume?"

"No. Not by me." He sets the bottle on the table with the immense care of someone trying not to explode. "How did you find out who it was?"

"I tricked her into telling me. And, no, we can't kill them. Not yet," Theo's tipping his own bottle back. After he swallows he adds. "They're a perfect walking advertisement for why the Order needs to go and if we off them now it'll just look like we're another batch of raving murderers. After she's elected, after we've tightened our grip on power, then we kill them."

"So, she has no idea we know?"

"I'm not even sure what we know," Blaise shakes his head. "Only that something happened, she was hurt, and she's trying to hide it. I'm sure I can find out, I mean, that's what I do, but..."

"They both need to die." Draco's voice has no inflection at all. He could be telling someone the time, as unemotional as he sounds. "She's brilliant but she's overly sentimental with regard to them, with regards to all her former allies. Witness: Luna."

"Why even meet with them?" Theo sounds frustrated. "What did she think she would accomplish? Did she think they'd suddenly give up all that money, all that power, if she just asked nicely enough? 'Please stop looting.' How can she have these blinders about them?"

"She doesn't have blinders exactly," Blaise shakes his head. "She has seven years of history, and not just of friendship. She and Weasley were together – I realize you don't like to think about that, Draco, but it's true. More, the break up was ugly but she keeps going back to him, like a kicked puppy. You found her watching them in a bar. Then she looked, what, when you set up that first confrontation?"

"Brokenhearted." Theo nods. "She's not _that_ good of an actress, not if you're watching closely. She hates him, but – "

" – but she wants not to." Blaise completes the sentence. "And now lunch. She probably thought they'd be all 'hey, let's be best friends again.'"

"And she wants them to be happy for her about you, as if they would ever happen." Theo looks at Draco. "Oh, just fuck. She's never going to let us kill them, not on purpose."

"If I can't coax permission to do it on purpose we find a time to arrange an accident." Draco looks at them both. "It's her main weakness, the only thing that's going to keep everything from coalescing the way we want it to. She'll keep protecting them, and finding excuses, and putting off dealing with them. I want her queen, and I want to stand behind that throne whispering in her ear, and then I want my son to inherit and I won't allow those two cretins to get in the way of that."

Theo shakes his head. "No accidents until after the election, Draco. Don't let your personal hatred be an Achilles heel. Hell, if you could wait until we get her actually crowned I'd appreciate it."

"What I don't understand," Blaise is frowning, "is why she's covering up for them."

"Well, it could be as simple as she'd rather Draco not go off half-cocked and slaughter them both in the street." Theo shifts in his chair.

"Is this," Blaise asks, "Where I make a cock joke?"

"No," mutters Draco. "This is where you keep your bloody mouth –

" – off your cock?" Blaise leers mockingly then laughs. "No problem. I'll stick to sticking my lunatic blonde."

"Figure it out, Draco," Theo mutters. "You're the one she's closest to. We need her for all this, hell, you know I'd follow her to the ends of the earth, but we do _not _need third act problems because she still thinks she's on the same side as those two. Figure out what is going on and stop it before she undoes everything we are trying to do.

"If I tell her to stay away from them – "

"That'll never work," Blaise shakes his head. "It'll just tick her off. We'll have to tag team her until the wedding. After that, you keep her busy. Maybe by then you'll figure out what the allure is, why she keeps going back to get kicked again."

"Get her pregnant while you're keeping her busy," Theo says and when Draco looks at him he adds, "I want her showing when she's sworn in."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione shoves a treat at the owl and opens the note as the bird flies away. All it says is, "the rabbit died." She smiles, and holds the note in her palm, watches it burst into flame. She's not one to leave a paper trail.

. . . . . . . . . .

He walks up behind her in the kitchen, puts her hands on her shoulders and lowers his mouth to her neck; shifting one hand to pull her hair out of the way, he begins to kiss slowly along the line of her muscles, letting his lips drift slowly down to her shoulder. He slides his hands down her arms and wraps his fingers around her wrists, feeling his bracelet under one hand but also feeling her flinch slightly as he touches the other wrist.

It still hurts her. Hours later.

He turns her slowly around and lifts that wrist to his mouth and kisses it, watching her eyes. She closes them and mutters, "You talked to Blaise."

"Tell me who I kill." He keeps his voice calm. "It could be terribly awkward if I murdered the wrong man."

"You can't – "

"Actually, I can, and I will. You might be able to talk me into waiting if it's expedient but whoever did this to you is most assuredly not going to reach old age." He waits, her wrist still at his mouth, watching her closed eyes. She sighs and slumps back against the counter before she finally opens her eyes and, staring at the floor, answers him.

"Ron."

He nods. "Once you're in power, he dies." He waits longer, braced against arguments, but finally she nods and he relaxes just a little; one down, one to go. Potter, however, will keep for later.

Wrapping one arm around her waist he holds her to him and buries his face in her hair. She starts to speak and he hushes her. "Let me enjoy kissing you; you're hurt and I'm beyond angry, but I'm in control. Trust me, Hermione."

She looks up at him, her eyes guarded, and before he can do anything she says, "Make it slow."

He blinks at her, trying to decide what she means, then smiles. Either way, he's happy to oblige. He puts one hand on each side of her face and leans down and kisses first her forehead, then the tip of her nose, then her mouth. Her lips soften and part under his and he takes his teeth and pulls lightly on her lower lip. As he does so she takes her hands and winds them into his hair and he quickly lifts her up and deposits her on the counter, sweeping some of her cheap plates out of the way so she has room to sit. He pulls his head back and looks at her, really looks at her. Sitting on the stained counter in one of those horrid jumpers with her hair a frizzy mess around her face, she's radiant, beautiful, his.

He bends down and begins to kiss her along the line of her jaw, a lick, a tiny nip with his teeth that makes her gasp, and another kiss. Then he captures her mouth again and starts to leisurely explore, one hand holding her head to his, another grabbing her hand to twine his fingers around hers. He'd call it a soul-shattering kiss, long and ardent, with no expectation of any kind of progression, no hope at all that she'd actually let him into her bed, into her; he'd call it that if she hadn't already shattered his soul and left it in pieces on her floor. This, this then is just a kiss, just a long, slow kiss that might kill him.

He pulls away from her mouth and fastens his lips on her throat, sucking and biting until he reaches the hollow right at the base and runs his tongue in a circle around and around, imagining he's licking her elsewhere, imagining any number of things. Finally he leans his head against her shoulder and says, roughly, "Have I told you, ever, how much I like seeing that bracelet on your wrist? How much I like that you never take it off?"

She's breathing hard and, when he looks up at her, her eyes seem oddly bright. She closes them and whispers, almost as if she doesn't quite want him to hear, "It feels like a bit of you, wrapped around me, keeping me safe."

"Oh sweetheart," he wraps his arms around her and pulls her to him. "You're safe with me. Just let me protect you, let me be yours, and I'll stand behind you and make sure no one ever dares hurt you again. I promise."

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N **__- As always, thank you everyone for reading, and following, and commenting. Many many thanks to the people who were kind enough to review the last chapter: Chester99, my name is mommy, PhoenixLadie007, Wolfman217, Guest, pagyn, Sora Loves Rain, Delancey654, dulce de leche go, and Pank98._

_I am working on both a plotting heavy chapter and the wedding and am open to suggestions as to which should come next. The Die, alas, is coming along very slowly and I probably won't have an update this week. _


	12. Chapter 12 - Maybe Not Totally Bloodless

**A/N **_– Trigger warning. Implied torture._

_. . . . . . . . . ._

"What's in this for you, anyway?" Blaise is leaning back against the wall, legs stretched out and a pile of books to one side. He's been methodically opening each book, searching the contents, marking pages, and setting them back down. "I know what Draco wants – his son on a throne. Pansy's just a pureblood supremacist so anyone offering a return to a world with herself at the top of the food chain would appeal to her. But you – you're a bit more of an enigma."

"Maybe I'm just as much of a pure blood ideologue as Pansy." Theo looks up from his pile of stolen documents. "Anything to put our team back in power. Or maybe I'm an idealist, chaffing under the corrupt rule of the Order."

"Wrong answer," Blaise snorts. "How about the truth?"

"Would you believe I just want my vaults back?"

"If you told me you were _voting_ for a conservative party planning to do away with excessive post-war property seizures, return property to the original owners, yes, I'd believe that. That you are sitting in my flat, picking through an intricate web of economic deceit and figuring out how to make it comprehensibly to hedge witches in Leeds, that you'll be walking a rising dark power down the aisle and handing her over to one of your best mates, inextricably publicly linking yourself with them? No, that's a bit much commitment for just wanting your money back."

"How about you?" Theo shoves the papers away and leans back in his chair. "Run off to Italy, my friend. I know you've got plenty of money tucked away there, and no Death Eater father in your past you have to wear like a millstone around your neck. Marry some pretty girl with half a brain in her head, churn out the required heir, enjoy life."

"I'd love to do that," Blaise tears another bookmark and tags a page in the book in his hand. "I'd love to raise some kids, travel. I'm just too afraid." Theo makes a questioning noise and Blaise sighs. "The bastards outnumber us, Theo. How many muggles could you hold off, really? If the witch-hunts started again in earnest, if it wasn't just some outlier beating his kid to make the magic go away but an actual full-on hunt? We have wands, Theo. What the fuck good is a wand against an army of muggles with the weapons they have?"

Theo shakes his head. "I think there's enough arcane spell craft in the books you're going through right now to wipe out a town with little more than a thought and - "

"And that's all banned." Blaise slam the book down. "We aren't allowed to use it. We aren't even allowed to give a kid a wand to protect himself until he's old enough to go to school, where he'll be taught watered down magic so he can scrub the dishes or fix a tear in a shirt but not wage war."

"I didn't know you were so eager to go back to war."

"I'm not." Blaise pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "But we're deliberately cutting ourselves off from power because we're afraid of dark magic, we're weakening ourselves all the while we're bringing mudbloods who are nothing but security leaks into our world. We're surrounded by people who, if they knew we existed, would try to hunt us down to kill us if we were lucky, study us if we weren't. I'd be a fool not to be concerned about that, not to want to be prepared."

Theo pulls his paperwork towards him again. "I agree." He flicks a glance up at Blaise. "I'm working for a time when the power is ours to take, with no bureaucrat showing up to tell me I can't do blood magic, or that they've arbitrarily decided a particular spell is evil. Plus, well, economics, of course, and personal power; I plan to have considerable personal power when this is all over. I don't think I have the same issues with muggle-borns you do, though."

"If they didn't come with muggle parents, I wouldn't care," Blaise mutters, "But they do. And muggle siblings, and muggle cousins and muggle..."

"I get it," Theo cuts him off. "You're starting to sound like Pansy."

"Ouch, mate." Blaise clutches at his chest. "You stab me right in the heart with that."

"What are you researching, anyway?"

"Seduction."

Theo's tricked into laughter at the incongruence of their different subjects. "Since when have you needed help with that? Plus, aren't you still screwing Luna?"

"I don't, and I am, thank you very much. It's not for me. It's for Hermione."

"First, that's moderately creepy, and, second, well, have you seen the way Draco looks at her? I think she might need help with seduction even less than you do."

"Could you try to not be a moron?" Blaise picks up the next book in his pile. "I mean, fuck, we ship Greg off to the country to look after Astoria and now you decide to take over his job as the village idiot? I'm just looking for a way I can make her just slightly more compelling, more interesting. Something subtle that will make voters lean just a little bit more towards her. Has to be undetectable, of course, and can't be so blatant men will start following her in the streets."

"That," Theo looks unwillingly impressed, "that is actually brilliant."

"If there's any kind of spell my mother collected, it was variations on seduction." Blaise shrugs. "She's got stuff that no one else has looked at in hundreds of years. Somewhere in here I'll find something I can adapt."

"First we get her elected…" Theo murmurs.

"…and then we end elections," Blaise finishes the thought and both men smile at one another.

. . . . . . . . . .

She sticks her head through the door and calls out, "Anyone home?"

Greg looks up and frowns. "You shouldn't be here."

"Don't scold. I get enough of that from Theo." Hermione rolls her eyes. "I wanted to see how you two were doing. I'm sure it's already harder than you expected."

Astoria walks into the room, one hand at her back, and looks at Hermione, her face slowly relaxing into a smile. "At least it's not Daphne, come to shove yet more articles about the dangers of childbirth at me, or scare stories about what happens if I don't take every pre-natal vitamin on the perfect schedule." She waves the other woman into the room. "Can I get you anything?"

"You," Hermione enters the cottage and drops her bag on a table by the door, "can get off your feet. Greg could get me some water?" As the man leaves the room she sighs. "How are you doing. Really? Daphne gives me updates but she's…"

"…weirdly obsessed with birth defects and hard labors?"

"Yeah. Would you rather have Pansy checking up on you?"

Astoria shudders. "No." She settles down into a chair. "I'm getting fat, none of my clothes fit, I'm swallowing these stupid, giant pills, I feel like throwing up all the time and I can barely keep my eyes open. Oh, and the smell of cooking chicken makes me want to die. Other than that, I'm fine." She shifts and mutters, "I wish men got pregnant."

"How's Greg doing?"

"He's… he's really great, actually. I guess it'll get hard for him when the world knows he's raising a bastard, but – "

"I've told you," Greg's come back and hands Hermione a glass of water. "I don't care about that…"

"Yeah, well, and the stupid midwife keeps making suggestive comments about how 'girls in trouble' can find 'good homes' with infertile pureblood couples. The idea I might actually want to keep the baby appears to be totally impossible for this woman to wrap her mind around."

"We are not – " Greg starts.

"Of course not," Hermione looks at him. "I actually came to ask you if you'd consider allowing Draco and I to be godparents."

Greg's mouth falls open and even Astoria looks startled. "I… is there anyone who _wouldn't _want the Lady to stand as godmother? It's… it's a lifelong bond, as strong as kinship. It's…"

Greg coughs. "I know you weren't raised with, umm, proper parents. Are you sure you know what you're offering?"

Hermione squats next to Astoria, reaching her hand out towards the other woman's abdomen. "I told you this would earn my gratitude. Once we've won, let me make that esteem something with actual cachet to balance the shame you're going to endure in the press. Let our children be friends as they grow, let your little one be like royalty in the world we're going to build." She looks up at Greg and grins, "Plus, it'll piss Ginny off to no end. You wouldn't deny me that, would you."

"I…no. I'm honored," the man stumbles over the words.

"Astoria?"

Eyes suspiciously bright the woman nods. "Stupid hormones," she mutters after a bit. "Everything makes me cry."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione walks into her flat to find her three boys – well, men – standing in a tight group. She wonders if it ever occurs to them that their headquarters is also her home, that maybe she'd prefer them to not simply let themselves in whenever they felt like it. She can never so much as leave a dirty sock on the floor without being afraid they'll spot it. Before she can complain, however, they part before her and there, tied up on her floor, lies a woman she's never seen before.

"Who does this belong to?" she raises her eyebrows.

"Blaise found her," Theo mutters.

"I don't mean to be prudish here, Blaise, but can't you play kinky sex games in your own flat?"

Draco covers a laugh with a quick cough and Theo snorts but Blaise just rolls his eyes. "As if I'd want to play sex games with any of you lot around. It's - I've been hovering around the edges of some meetings and I overheard her talking. She's… well, I think you should look at her, Lady."

Hermione sighs and frowns at Blaise. "You had to bring her _here_? Really? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get blood out of these old floors? They're practically sponges, the way they absorb liquids." She squats down in front of the woman and examines her. "Do I know her?"

"Probably not," Theo shakes his head. "My guess is she didn't go to Hogwarts; a lot of people home school rather than send their kids to board. It doesn't lead to the best magical education, but what can you do?"

Pansy opens the door, sees the woman on the floor, Hermione squatting in front of her, and starts to laugh. "I take it our little social meetings are becoming a bit more hands on?"

Hermione bites her lip and looks up at the other woman. "I think you should go and distract Luna, Pans, before she shows up for coffee and conversation. I doubt she'd be quite on board with this evening's apparent change of plans." Theo chokes back some kind of sound the rest of them ignore. "Can you do that?"

"I am my Lady's humble servant," Pansy tugs her forelock mockingly. "Do I want to know what's about to happen here?"

"Probably not," Draco holds the door for her and Pansy hefts her bag over her shoulder, goes back out to head off Luna muttering under her breath about the general unfairness of her life and how no one lets her have any fun. "No, _I _get to baby-sit the lunatic," she's saying as the door closes behind her.

"Now," Hermione turns her attention back to the woman, hauling her up from her side to a kneeling position, waiting for her to get her balance. "To deal with you. Who, my dear, are you, and what do you know about us?"

The woman spits in her face.

"Strategic thinking not exactly your greatest strength, is it?" Hermione wipes the spittle off her cheek and without looking up asks, "Theo, if you were in enemy hands what would you do?"

"Attempt to convince them I was terrified of you, eager for a chance to defect, claim I had all sorts of inside knowledge," he drawls. "I certainly wouldn't waste energy in heroic gestures of defiance."

"You can," the woman gasps. "You can defect - save me and you can –"

"Ah, but, love. I'm not the one in enemy hands," Theo shakes his head in mock disappointment. "You are. And, besides, whoever you are, I doubt you're important enough to know anything or be offering any kind of guarantees."

"Let me see if I can clarify your predicament for you since you don't seem to quite grasp it," Hermione smiles at the woman. "You are surrounded by four people, none of whom are particularly well disposed towards you, and, of the lot, I'm probably the least bloodthirsty. The best possible outcome for you right now is for me to loot your mind and then dump you, obliviated, outside a pub. The worst possible outcome, well, that probably doesn't bear dwelling on but, if you spit on me again, I suspect you are going to find this evening to be more, rather than less, unpleasant."

"You can all defect," the woman gasps, "The Order…"

Theo starts to laugh. "Do you really think you can peel away the Lady's _core supporters_ in her own flat? We're loyal to the death, you bumbling idiot. Preferably your death, of course, but you are really picking the wrong crowd to subvert, especially if your bait is the Order."

Hermione leans back on her heels. "Draco, do you have any moral compunction against killing this woman?"

Draco snorts. He's propped himself up against the doorframe between the main room and the kitchen and is ostentatiously cleaning nonexistent dirt out from under his fingernails.

"Theo?" Hermione continues.

"Is that a serious question?" the man asks.

"Blaise?"

"I do think we should find out what she knows first but," he shrugs, "your will is my life."

"Perhaps," Hermione murmurs, her lips so close to the other woman's ear she can feel the other woman's skin under them. "You have a better sense of what you're facing now. We all _hate _the Order and everyone you've seen here is utterly, unswervingly loyal to me and to our goals, even that woman who looked at you and laughed before abandoning you to your fate. We can't be swayed to change sides by money, we already have more power than you'll ever know, and none of us are playing by rules you understand." She takes her finger and traces it along the planes of the woman's face, watching the tears spill out her eyes. "I wonder what I'm going to find when I start walking the pathways of your soul? Is your connection to the Order something you've made up to feel important? Are you an insignificant part of their machine? Or do you really have a tie to someone, do they really know about us? For your sake, I hope it's the first but I have a suspicion the fear in your eyes means it's not." She balances back again, rocking on her heels, and puts her wand under the woman's chin. "Keeping me out of your mind is likely not something you can control. How much pain you feel, however…"

She's indulging in a dramatic shrug when the woman spits at her again. Hermione shakes her head. "You shouldn't have done that. Now I'm going to have to let boys indulge some of their less savory protective urges." She watches the woman grow even paler, then slides her way in, letting memories, thoughts, fears – a lot of fears – move past her. The woman's a simple thinker; it's so easy to pick out useful bits of information Hermione briefly worries it's a trap and probes harder, with even less care, and there's still no trace of deceit. It's all just there, simple, plain, obvious.

"Blaise, take notes," she calls out, and starts reeling off a list of contacts with the working class underground who are loyal to the order, or, at any rate, loyal to the coins they've been passed. The woman starts to keen, a horrible, high-pitched sound that ends when Hermione, done, stands up, steps back and kicks the woman, who has curled in on herself on the floor and started to whimper. "Honestly," Hermione snaps, "you'd think it was the cruciatus curse, the way you're acting, not just a little legilimancy. Have some pride and control yourself."

"Obviously, the Order knows about the simmering discontent among the masses and are tracking it. Do they know about you? How bad it is?" Theo's idly swinging his wand back and forth.

"Well, she didn't. Doesn't mean none of them do."

"Looks like we're entering phase two."

"Indeed." Hermione tucks her wand away, wipes her hands on the front of her thighs. "I'm going to open a bottle of wine. As long as you don't kill her, I don't care what happens while I'm out of the room." She pauses at the doorway to reach up and kiss Draco, who wraps an arm around her and pulls her closer, thrusting into her mouth.

"You're sick," the woman chokes out. "Snogging your Death Eater boyfriend after torturing me."

"Oh, sweetie," Hermione breaks contact and looks back at her. "That wasn't torture. What happens next, that's the torture. You really shouldn't have spit at me a second time but I did warn you. Theo, would you be so kind at to silence her?"

"My apologies that I didn't do it sooner," he murmurs. "I don't suppose you have any snacks tucked away in that closet you call a kitchen you could put out on a plate for us? Hunger makes me irritable."

"I'll find something, take my time to set it out," Hermione smiles at the woman. "Food presentation is so important, don't you agree?" She starts to leave the room again then adds, "If you gentlemen get blood on my floor, you're cleaning it up. Before we eat."

. . . . . . . . .

When she comes back in, balancing a tray with assorted starters on one hand, several wine glasses carefully held in the other and a bottle under her arm, the woman, silent, huddles on the floor in as small a ball as she can manage. Blaise smoothly takes the tray away and sets it on the table she'd finally purchased and slides the wine bottle out from where she's pressed it to her side. One at a time she sets the glasses on the table then sighs.

"Well," Blaise has pulled the stopper out of the wine and is pouring it into each glass. "I'm worried about the underground. It's a good entry into the general popular discontent but it's clearly riddled with informants."

"I know," Hermione takes a sip from her glass and frowns at their captive. "Still, even a flawed tool can be useful and we do need to tap into more widespread support. But I want you to be careful. We can't afford to lose you. I can't afford to lose you."

"You flatter me," he raises his glass towards her but under the mocking words he looks pleased.

"What are we going to do with her?" Theo still squats in front of the nearly unconscious woman, frowning.

"Dump her at St. Mungo's." Draco suggests. "Obliviated?"

"Not just obliviated," Hermione looks at him. "Wipe her brain. I want nothing left. Let her fellows see her and wonder whether there's a cost to selling information to the Order."

Theo stands and crosses to her, takes her hand in his and kisses her fingers. "Lady."

"Will you do it, Draco, or shall I?" She watches him, her hand still in Theo's, and he considers them, Blaise standing behind the pair, wine glass in hand.

"I would be honored, fairest Niniane. I'm just surprised, that's all. I sometimes forget how ruthless you can be."

"I told you," she says quietly, "that I was going to betray them all, bind them up in that metaphorical tree." She takes a sip of her wine. "Did you think I wouldn't have the stomach for it?"

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco pulls her into his arms and lets his fingers play with the tips of her curls. "You okay after all that?"

"Wading though her mind was like sticking your hands into a swamp, just slimy and wet and oozing. Not that she was hard to read but she was just - " Hermione grimaces. "Thank you for burning her out; the thought of having to go back into her head made me feel ill. The whole thing makes me feel a little ill."

He tightens his hold on her. "You knew it would come to this, eventually."

"Knowing and doing are not always the same thing." She presses her cheek into him. "She'd figured it out, you know. She wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed but she'd figured out Blaise wasn't just another dissatisfied shopkeeper and she was excited to tell someone. It was fun to turn in her friends who got together to grumble about the Order, but Blaise, she knew she'd caught a bigger fish with him. She was hoping they'd let her watch them question him, wanted to see him hurt."

"Tell whom, though?"

"She didn't know a name; some intelligence contact." Hermione shakes her head against his chest. "Trust me, I looked. Ugg. Her mind – she was not a clear thinker." She settles there, against him, and they lay in silence for a while. Finally, she asks, "Do I want to know what you all did to her?"

"Probably not," he buries his face into her curls. "You have to really mean it, you know, and we did."

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N **_Thank you for reading; know that the immense compliment you pay me by reading and following this story fills my heart with joy. _

_Thank you, especially, to my wonderful reviewers! Seeing your comments is great! My name is mommy, rosierocks30, LadiePhoenix007, Pank98, Chester99, naysaykaybay, ladymagna1100, pagyn, Sora Loves Rain, stardust923_

_I have to apologize – I can't update The Die this week. It's just… it's not coming out right and I keep writing and deleting things. It's peculiar how some things just fall out of one's head and some scenes it's more like yanking out weeds that are very deeply rooted and have no intention of going anywhere._


	13. Chapter 13 - The Wedding

Theo looks down at her, frank admiration in his eyes. "Are you ready, Lady."

Pansy, fussing with the train, mutters, "Watch it, Theo. You don't know who's listening," but Theo smiles back at her and shrugs. "There's no one here who shouldn't hear me."

Hermione's staring into the mirror propped on a mantle in this makeshift dressing area. One of the downsides of the inexpensive wedding has been the dressing room accommodations at the public park; Pansy and Luna have gotten her ready and touched up her hair in what amounts to little more than a cinderblock cabin with a single window. "You look beautiful," Theo puts his fingers under her chin and turns her to face him. "Let the photographer get your picture for the paper, then I'll walk you down to Draco."

She smiles at him, clearly nervous, and then poses for the formal society page bridal portrait. The light catches her hair and the shadows highlight the detailing in her dress. The picture catches her looking modestly down and then smiling shyly at the camera; it's a portrait that more than one girl will cut out to study her dress, study her hair. More than one girl will mimic that hair, braids wrapping around the head, a subtle circlet containing a waterfall of curls, at her next formal event.

Left alone as Pansy and Luna leave, the photographer following them, Theo and Hermione look at one another. "It's almost show time," he murmurs, and kisses her fingers. "I know, you know - hell, even Pansy probably knows - that this, this was not a love match. It started as much more in the way of a bargain; he offered you his connections and blood status and you offered him power behind that throne we both know you'll end up sitting on. But, Hermione, I know he adores you. Please give him a chance."

"I always thought," she whispers, " since fourth year, that it would be someone else."

"Well," Theo pulls her into a hug. "You dodged a bullet there, didn't you?"

"You're going to get makeup on your shirt," she mutters.

"Oh, honestly," he pulls her in tighter. "Do you really think I don't know how to get lipstick out of my shirts? Wizard, remember? I know I'm no Blaise, but I have been known to date upon occasion, sometimes even people who wear makeup." He pauses for a moment, then brings his hand up to stroke her hair, tuck an errant curl behind her ear. "You know, we all like you for who you are, Lady, in all your ruthless, vicious glory. Not because you do our homework."

She laughs into his chest at that. "You hardly need someone else to do your work for you."

"Well, and neither does Draco. Never did, the rotter."

She sighs and pulls away from him. "Ah, Theo. Having you as a friend may be one of the best parts of this whole endeavor."

"A brother, my dear." He holds out his arm. "One pureblood supremacist, bent on world domination, at your service." She puts her hand over his arm and, just before they head out, he adds quietly, searching her eyes, "Do you like him, Hermione? Enough to be happy?" Whatever he sees must reassure him because he shoves the door of their barracks open with one foot, careful not to scuff his shoe, and guides her over the threshold.

. . . . . . . . . .

This, if he is being honest, is not what Draco had always assumed his wedding would be like. Not that he'd really given it a tremendous amount of thought, but he's been to enough weddings, dragged along by his parents and threatened with unnamed – if never forthcoming – dire consequences if he didn't behave that he has developed a clear idea of what a regular wedding is. A regular, proper wedding involves expensive venues, imported flowers, hundreds upon hundreds of people and at least one drunken elderly relative. It did _not_, in his experience, mean a public park with a few score people sitting on folding chairs. His mother looks smugly pleased by the entire situation, however, and he hopes that means she's successfully mustered every signal of propriety and dignity she could dredge out of her vast social playbook. Pureblood aristocrats don't marry impoverished orphans every day but if there's a right way to pull such a thing off she's the one who would know it. When he'd told her Theo had agreed to walk Hermione down the aisle she'd smiled, one of her inward smiles, and nodded. "Good. I always liked that boy."

Now he's waiting, in this scraggly little park, for Theo to bring him his bride. Pansy's already come out of that grim little cinderblock box and nodded to him. Luna, the only official bridesmaid, stands at the other end of the cleared aisle between the chairs, waving off at – oh, really? – Potter who, despite not being invited, seems to have propped himself up against a tree some distance away to watch the proceedings. Well, that's interesting.

He looks back and sees Theo carefully helping Hermione over the raised step at the door. The guests, pureblood all, turn and watch the pair. Draco notices several women lean over to friends, whispers spread through the seats as Luna starts to walk down towards him. He ignores her, batty thing that she is, and stares at the end of the aisle where Hermione waits, hand resting on Theo's arm, face turned towards him as he leans down to say something to her. All women, he's heard his mother say, are beautiful on their wedding day. History has suggested to him that this sentiment is grounded more in wishful thinking than objective assessment; plenty of plain women remain plain women, even in expensive gowns and with elaborate hairdos. Still, since he thinks Hermione beautiful when she's got ink on her lips from chewing on a quill it's no surprise he finds her lovely today. Breathtaking, he corrects himself.

The browning grass, the metal chairs, the dumpy official in her sensible flat shoes, he ignores all of these irritants as he watches this woman walk towards him. The guests have all stood to politely acknowledge her, Theo's handing her off to him, giving her one last, tight hug before murmuring in his ear, "Make her happy or I kill you," and taking his own place as best man. The ministry official begins to drone on; it's the standard ceremony and he's heard it enough to have it memorized so he can pay attention, instead, to his bride. Bushy haired, buck toothed, know-it-all Granger, who is standing here in front of him, marrying him, holding a tiny nosegay of – are those water lilies? He almost laughs when he realizes she's picked water lilies. He manages to contain himself, and just grins down at her, his brilliant, sly, amazing Hermione. His Lady of the Lake. His.

She's smiling back up at him, her own gaze direct and unwavering. She's giving whatever the appropriate responses are, as is he, but the official might not be there for all the attention he's paying her. All he knows, all he can see, all he can think of is this woman in front of him. He slips the ring, a circlet of emeralds, onto her finger, turns her hand and presses his lips into her palm. She takes her hand and presses it to his cheek and he hears the official pronounce them married. He pulls her into his arms and places the symbolic kiss, binding them, on her lips. A model of propriety, she doesn't melt or sink into his arms but remains the cool pureblood, endlessly alluring and unavailable, not one to engage in distasteful public spectacle. The guests start to clap and he offers her his arm, leads her back up the aisle, Luna and Theo following them.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Such a lovely ceremony"

"A beautiful bride, nice to see things done simply and elegantly for a change."

"Theodore Nott walking her down the aisle – I didn't expect that!"

"She volunteers, you know. Not like the rest of that war crew.

"I'm sure Narcissa planned the whole thing; that woman has impeccable taste."

"Did you see the way he couldn't look away from her? I wish my groom had looked at me like that, back in the day!"

. . . . . . . . . .

When he thinks to look again, after the ceremony, Potter is gone.

. . . . . . . . . .

"You look beautiful," Draco whispers. "The hint of green in the dress surprised me."

"A nod to your childhood school affiliation," she's leaning into him as they dance. "It was your mother's idea, though she tried to claim it was to bring out the non-existent red in my hair."

"And the flowers?"

"Ah, that was my contribution."

"I like them," he spins her around before pulling her close again. "And you as well."

"I know." She's silent for a bit, then adds, "You know I like you too, right?"

"I do," he closes his eyes for a moment. "Still, it's always nice to hear."

. . . . . . . . . .

Custom dictated the bride's family – or, in this case, the bride – pay for the wedding and Draco had overheard enough pleased chatter to realize keeping it simple and in Hermione's budget had been the right choice. The wedding night, however, he had paid for. "By that point she'll be my wife so it hardly matters if the bill goes to me," he'd snapped at his mother when she'd objected, "and I'm not staying in some bed-bug ridden hovel." Their bridal suite was, therefore, exclusive, elegant and would have been perfect if Hermione weren't standing at the foot of the bed looking like she'd rather be anywhere else.

He raises his eyebrows and studies her. "Riveted for life, my dear. I hope you aren't having second thoughts now."

"No," she stammers. "It's just.."

"What?" He pulls off one shoe, then another and sits on the edge of the bed next to her, tugs her down into his side. "How do I get this dress off, anyway?" He looks at the back and makes a face. "Do I really have to undo all of these buttons?"

"Yes," she twists away from him, moves so there are several inches separating them and he waits for her to turn so he can start the task of releasing her from the gown but she doesn't, and he looks at her then, really looks at her. She's pale and stiff and he reaches a hand out to her face.

"Hey," he traces his fingers along her cheekbones, down the edge of her jaw. "I don't mean to sound so unromantic. I just assumed you'd want to get out of that thing. It's beautiful, but it can't be totally comfortable."

"It's okay," she mutters. Then she smiles, a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "And I never get to wear it again, right, so I should enjoy it."

"Of course," he watches her.

'What did you like best about the wedding?" She's talking a little too brightly as she slips off her own shoes and reaches down to rub at the soles of her feet.

"The bride," he smiles at her. "I think you made me promise to do that." She looks at him, confused, and he shakes his head. "Remember when I first ordered you to wear heels and you finally agreed only with the caveat I would have to massage your feet. Well?"

He lowers himself down to kneel on the floor at her feet; she's still unwontedly nervous, white-knuckling the edge of the bedspread. "You don't need to look so terrified; I've been told I'm acceptably skilled at this; no one's lost a toe yet." He pulls one foot into his lap and starts to knead the bare skin of the ball of her foot. "No stockings?"

"Pansy told me they spoiled the line of the dress," she's slowly releasing her death grip on the coverlet. "Mmm, that's really nice."

"I'm a man of many talents." He puts his hands on the other foot and continues move his thumbs in slow circles. Circle after circle and she's closing her eyes and starting to sag into ease above him. He slides his hands up her leg and starts massaging her calf, then lowers his mouth to her foot and nuzzles her toes. She immediately tenses again and he murmurs "Shhh" against her foot and kisses along the arch of her foot, up her ankle and along the curve of her calf. He starts to slip the dress up over her knees, holds it up at her thighs, and she's inexplicably frozen again.

He lets go of the silk, leans back again and looks at her. He's had a lifetime of wealth, privilege, and an aura of danger he's never had the slightest reticence about exploiting to get pretty girls into bed and, as a result, he's slept with a fair number of women, more than one of whom had been inexperienced. Something is going on here, and it's not as straightforward as he'd prefer. Not even people who despise him have ever called him slow and now he's taking her dating history, her injured wrist, Blaise's rumor mongering and her obvious fear and is adding them up; the final sum isn't clear yet but he's quite sure he's not going to like it when it is. He opts to go for a seemingly direct question.

"Is this your… are you a…" he trails off at the ashamed look on her face.

"I'm not sure," she finally mutters.

That, he thinks, is not a good answer. It's revealing but not good. "How can you not be sure? It's pretty much a binary issue."

"Ron had… he… issues."

"Weasley couldn't keep it up with you?" Well goddamn. Blaise had been right, partially right at least; he's sure there's more.

"He told me I was dumpy, not…"

Suppressing a building sense of rage, Draco leans further back and makes a show of admiring her. "I assure you, you are not dumpy."

"So, anyway, he couldn't, and we didn't, but we'd started to, so, well, I'm not sure."

"Wait," he shakes his head as if he could clear out the bad thoughts with vigorous movement. "Are you telling me he told you that you weren't sexy enough to please him and it was your fault he couldn't keep it up _your first time?_?"

"Yeah." She looks away, takes a deep breath and seems to make a decision. "That's when he hit me."

Draco freezes. "What?"

"It was just the once," the words are falling out of her mouth. "He was so frustrated, so upset that it just wasn't working, he grabbed me and then – "

He's up off the floor and pulling her tight into his arms before she can finish. He holds on, knowing if he lets go he's going to leave and come back with blood on his hands. "I assume," his words are clipped, "that's when you left him."

"Are you upset?" It's the lost, sad sound of her voice that hurts the most. "It's nothing…"

"It's not 'nothing'. Don't say that. And, I'm livid, trust me. I'm… does Potter know?"

He expects her to say no. Nothing else would make any sense, so he doesn't even quite register the wan little "yes." He has to stop and replay her answer in his mind and then he starts to swear. He'd spent a year of his life cooped up with a madman and his equally deranged henchmen and, between that and what his mother once called his 'strong verbal skills', he has an impressive vocabulary. It takes a while before he starts to repeat actual words though the sentiment – that he's going to kill both of them in painful and drawn out ways – remains constant.

He's reached "I'm going to go Edward the second on those malingering whoresons" when she starts to giggle. By "pox-marked pignuts" she's actually laughing and he leans back and looks at her, reaches a thumb up and rubs some wetness from under her eyes. "Are you actually crying about those wretched, witless, worthless blood traitors? Because I'm going to add an extra 10 minutes to their deaths for every tear."

"I'm sorry," she's trying to compose herself. "It's really inappropriate of me to cry about another man on our wedding night, isn't it. Let's get on with it, shall we?" She's back to that forced smile. "Stiff upper lip and all that."

He huffs out an exasperated snort. "Get on with it? What, you plan to lay back and think of England while I plow you like some rutting goat? I don't think so." He pulls her back into a tight hug. "We'll 'get on with it,' as you so depressingly put it, when you aren't upset or afraid, and if that's another night, so be it." He reaches around behind her ahead and starts to untwine her braids, releasing the crown and undoing each plait. She slowly softens into his touch as he runs his fingers through her curls.

They stand there, his fingers twining in her hair. "Tell me," he says, "something I don't know about you."

"I just did," she objects.

"Something less likely to push me into a murderous rage, perhaps?"

She sighs and shifts against him. "I hate flying."

"I actually knew that."

"I'm not very good at cleaning charms."

"I'd figured that out. You're not very good at this game either, are you?" he teases her, feeling her body slowly relax against his at this familiar back and forth.

"You remind me of the ocean," she finally says. "before a storm when everything feels taut, when the air smells of rain that hasn't come yet, when the grey of the clouds and the grey of the water stretch out forever in front of you."

He listens to her breathe, feels the warmth of her pressed up against him. "Is that good?" he asks after a while.

"I love the ocean," she says simply.

He listens to that, feels himself inhale at her words, but doesn't say anything. He just traces a circle against her hip with his fingers, round and around, lulling her, lulling himself. When she turns her face up and starts to kiss him he feels like he might fragment into a thousand shards of fear and worry and rage and joy. He returns the kiss until he's slowly, thoroughly tasting her, until he's gasping into her, until she's starting to writhe against him.

"I should have told you," she's muttering, "before you were stuck with me."

"Told me what," he's lowering his lips to her neck and is drawing circles on her skin with his tongue. "About the flying? I've known that since before we hit puberty. And, trust me, 'stuck' is not the right word."

"That, Ron said, that I was," she's so quiet he can barely hear her and he holds very still, listening, "that I was cold, unresponsive, no fun…"

He trails his fingers down her arm and at her sharp inhale of breath murmurs, "You aren't unresponsive, Hermione. You've been driving me to the point of insanity for what feels like an eternity but, trust me on this one, it's not because you don't respond to my touch." He pauses. "What else did the bastard say?"

"I… I," she stammers. "I didn't, well, lubricate and he told me that I was cold, frigid. That I wasn't…"

"Wasn't what? It was your _first time_. He was supposed to go slowly, make sure you were ready, not bloody well berate you for being nervous!"

He turns her to see her reflection in the large mirror leaning up against the wall. She closes her eyes until he says, "Don't. Don't look away. Tell me what you see."

"Dumpy," she mutters. "Frizzy, dumpy, not good enough."

But he shakes his head. "Let me tell you what I see. Your hair, this glorious, untamed hair. I'm not even sure how many colors there are in those curls. I tried to count them once in a meeting."

"You should have been paying attention."

"Greg was asking questions; it wasn't important. And stop interrupting me." He takes one hand and twines a single curl around his fingers. "Gold. Copper. Brown. When the light from your skylight hits you, your hair shifts from brown to a thousand shades, every lock is different. Your eyes, I've seen them be curious, commanding, terrifying. But there's one look – look at yourself – you have when you look at me, a little trusting, a little vulnerable, and that one is just for me. It's mine. When you look at me that way, do you know what you do to me? One glance and I'm back at your feet. You own me with that look, Hermione. And this mouth." He drops her curl, "I fantasized about this mouth before I even liked you."

She's silent, staring at him in their reflection.

"I was raised to expect a bride who waited, you know, even if she'd had dozens of men dangling from her fingertips. It's part of the nearly Victorian mores of my parent's set. I'm not the slightest bit put off by your inexperience and I don't care how long it takes for you to feel at ease with me because I'm in this for the forever." He tugs at the shoulder of her dress. "But I cannot believe for a moment this is comfortable enough to lie down in. Let me help you get it off and you can wrap up in a giant, fluffy robe and we can sit on the bed and you can talk to me about plots and scandals and how we're going to take over the world."

She nods and he starts undoing her dress as she watches him in that mirror, one tiny button at a time, stopping to kiss her back with each new inch of skin exposed. By the time he's slipping the dress over her hips, she's lost interest in the robe.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N **__I realize the trope of "Hermione as virgin", especially combined with "Sex God Draco" can be tiresome and reeks of a rather dated view of women and sexuality. In my defense, both of my other fics have a Hermione who is sexually active before she pairs up with Draco and the construction of this version of the character as a bit of a wounded sexual naïf was a deliberate part of explaining both her separation from Ron and why she both hates him and yet hasn't been able to completely cut ties. Bad first experiences can be… bad. _

_I won't be writing the honeymoon because I do want to keep this T (it IS still T, right? I might be cutting it close but, crap, I read stuff significantly more vulgar and explicit than this story at 12. Of course, I was also basically raised by wolves so my sense of appropriate "Teen" level material may be off.) Suffice to say that Hermione overcomes her Ron-induced neurosis in such amount of time as seems appropriate and realistic and Draco manages to refrain from detailing the long, slow, painful death he plans to orchestrate for said neurosis-inducer despite concocting several different options._

_Also, Edward II probably did not actually die of a proctologic exam with a red-hot poker. It's still a commonly held misconception._

_Thank you, again and as always, to all my lovely reviewers: Chester99, paygn, LadiePhoenix007, hoshiakari7, Pank98, rosierocks30, Grovek26, Sheik, dulce de leche go, Sora Loves Rain, Moms Escape, and even you, Cassidy Day (you're my first silly flame review ever so you hold a special place in my giggling heart.)_


	14. Chapter 14 - Laying Groundwork

She's rearranging the pictures on the table of the cheap muggle flat, pushing them around to see if she can make the connections clearer if she's got a visual pattern to work with. Theo hands her another pile, fresh from his printer, and leans back to watch her look through them.

"Shaklebolt?" she raises her eyebrows at him when she gets to one of them and he grins at her.

"Signature and everything."

"I can't believe this actually spells out they are seizing property for personal enrichment, that the war's paid off, and that he signed it. _Signed it_. Merlin, Theo, where did you find this?"

"Percy Weasley's office." He spins in his chair and waits for her to find the rest of goodies in this haul.

"And…" she starts sorting the pictures into the piles she has on the table, shoving them around into a new order. "Arthur's skimming the money, this confirms that, and then it's going into the orphanage _here._" She puts those two piles next to each other. "And then Percy .. he's investing in international markets? International _muggle _markets" She looks up at Theo in utter perplexity and he smirks at her.

"He's playing the market, assuming he's going to make a killing." Theo stands up and leans over the table, pushing a third pile into a row. "They plan to reinvest that money into the government farm contracts they've steered to their friends, people who are willing to wait for the payout. In theory that means they'll have more money to grow food, distribute to the masses."

"Bread and circuses." She frowns at him.

"And your lovely friends are the circuses."

"Former friends," she corrects him. "So, we've got illegal asset forfeiture, and embezzlement that takes money from orphans and food resources for the poor, plus the debased coinage? All clearly documented."

"Pretty much. Of course," Theo looks at her, "if the work goes their way it's a brilliant international investment; they could funnel even half of their gains back into the original programs and still look golden."

"And if the bottom were to fall out of those markets? Or if they were to overextend themselves?"

"Then they lose everything."

She leans forward on the table, her chin resting in one hand as she studies the piles of photographs. "Then I guess it behooves us to make sure they overextend themselves into unstable markets, doesn't it, before we out them."

. . . . . . . . . .

"How was the honeymoon?" Theo joins Draco at what he's taking to calling 'this fucking place' to subtly register his displeasure with the locale. There must, he's insisted, be some other bar in all of London they can meet at, someplace equally discreet and somewhat less decrepit and sticky. "You know why I don't like kids?" he'd asked once. "Because they're sticky. What makes you think I wouldn't feel the same way about the stick on the tables here?"

"It was fine," Draco holds a shot glass in his hand; Theo suspects it's not his first drink of the night. "It was good. It was great. She was great. Everything was great except for the part where I spent the week hiding how much I wanted to kill Weasley and Potter."

"I take it you figured out what's her issue around those two?" Theo eyes the waitress with disgust as the woman desultorily wipes down the counter using a filthy rag that just smears the dirt around.

"Yep." Draco throws back his shot and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. "What I can't figure out is how someone can plot a coup, let us torture some stranger because the damn fool spit on her, agree to marry a man she doesn't even like for power…"

"I think she likes you."

"She does _now, _sure. She didn't when we decided on that plan." He runs his finger around the edge of the glass, around and around. "How can you do all of those things and still be an emotional wreck over one obvious cretin?"

"Because women are insane. Obviously."

"You know, I've been a bully in my life, and a snob, and really a pretty vicious bastard -"

"You say 'been' as if you've somehow reformed."

"Hardly. It's just… people call us the villains, Theo, and them the heroes. It's fucked up."

"We aren't the villains." He signals for another round. "We just lost. Doesn't mean we weren't on the right side." Draco shakes his head and stares moodily at the table. There's a large, puddle-shaped patch of dried dust sticking to an ancient spill and he puts his empty glass in the center of it. Theo rolls his eyes and asks, "Who writes the history, my friend."

"The victors," Draco mutters.

"And so, this time around, who're going to be the heroes?"

"I guess," Draco takes another shot off the tray the indifferent waitress is holding towards him, "I guess we are."

. . . . . . . . . .

The photographer hands her the envelope. "These are copies of all the shots I got. What do you want me to do with them?"

Hermione takes the pictures, pulls them out and flips through them rapidly. The one of Æthel is particularly haunting; the ten-year-old stands in a cheap muggle dress and worn trainers and holds a dirty toddler on her hip. Despite her obvious deprivation she's staring directly at the lens, fierce and unbowed. Not for the first time Hermione wonders whose daughter the girl is, how she ended up alone in the world. "These are," she struggles for words. "I hate to call them beautiful but in a terrible way they are. They're so powerful." She slides them back into the envelope. "Nice work."

"Thank you," he smiles at her thinking that the night he'd lifted his camera and taken a shot of her being shoved down in the street had been the luckiest night of his life. He hasn't missed that, like Draco, she rewards loyalty. First the wedding gig, now this assignment; he knows the work is good. When these shots go public they should help get him out of the miserable world of shooting flower shows and ribbon cuttings, get him some actual respect in his field. "Congratulations on your marriage, by the way. I didn't want to interrupt your actual day, it seemed unprofessional."

She laughs. "I don't think we were that formal that day, but thank you for the consideration. That was nice work too. Maybe not as striking as these," she shakes the packet in her hand, "but society brides are inherently trifle banal as a subject, I suppose."

"Still beautiful," he flatters and she smiles at him with practiced charm before she returns to the less pleasant subject.

"We're doing some… research… into the funding problems that resulted in what you see there. When the final article is ready to run I'll let you know and you can decide whether you want your byline to run with them. If you wanted to suppress that for a while, I wouldn't hold it against you. In the long run you'll get credit for your work, whatever you decide now." She bends down to slip the envelope into her bag.

He nods. "You know," he adds. "Nimue was always my favorite character in the old stories." Hermione looks up and raises her eyebrows.

"Really?"

"Merlin gets so much more attention but, in the end, she's the one who mattered. She's the one who really established Arthur's reign, coronated him, albeit with a sword instead of a crown. Arthur Pendragon's reign."

Hermione shrugs in feigned idleness. "I don't think monarchy as a system of government is very popular anymore."

"Then you think wrong," he states baldly. "The Ministry bungled the First War; the only reason the Dark Lord was beaten was because his curse rebounded off a baby. If it had been up to the Ministry he'd have ruled us all. Second War? Same thing, he was beaten, _again_, by children, including, begging your pardon, you, while the Ministry first claimed nothing was going on and then jailed a bunch of harmless old coots as scapegoats. Now? They can't even manage peacetime. That orphanage? How everything costs so much more? I think you'll find people far more interested in returning to a monarchy, assuming they believe it'll be run reasonably well, than you expect. Another Lady, crowning another Dragon? If things get much worse, they'll bloody well be rioting in the streets demanding it."

Hermione weighs her words. "Photo-journalism is always a powerful tool. I would, of course – outside the orphanage project – never suggest what a journalist should or should not cover though I do think your talents are wasted shooting book signings and the like and I would always encourage people I admire to pursue their passions. I suspect your interests lie outside the society pages, that you'd do well covering meatier stories."

He shifts on his feet and looks at the ground, at her hand, at the sign on the brick wall behind her head; he's not used to this world of talking around what you mean and is afraid he'll somehow get it wrong. "I'll think about that. I would love to shoot hard stories, stories that mean something." He moves his bag to his other shoulder. "I liked the water lilies you picked for your wedding bouquet, by the way."

"Thank you," she smiles at him again, a quick predatory look hidden almost immediately under a polite nod. "I'll look for your work in the future, then?"

"Indeed," and he slips away, recognizing he's been dismissed, already wondering what governmental abuses he can seek out, bring into the open.

. . . . . . . . . .

Pansy pulls the morning post towards her and flips through it: junk, junk, invitation, junk, note. She slides her fingernail under the seal, noting she needs to get her manicure redone, and starts to read.

_Would you please start a series that pushes Harry as a desirable candidate on the basis of his moral authority. It's not his experience, the lack of which you are more than welcome to dwell on, but his standing as an unblemished icon of the light, that makes him a suitable future Minister. Virtue and pedestals and all that. Arrange to publish anonymously as people might have noticed you at the wedding. Also, please make a list for me of all the properties that need to be restored to their proper owners in order of importance. I trust your judgment. _

Pansy smiles and starts ripping the note into smaller and smaller pieces. "With pleasure," she murmurs. "With pleasure, Lady."

. . . . . . . . . .

"You don't really expect me to be sympathetic, do you?" Hermione has the bad manners to sound amused.

"Some compassion for my head might be nice, yes." Draco looks through the cabinets trying to find a hangover remedy.

"This isn't my fault. He was already drunk when I met him," Theo calls out from the couch where he's going through the series of orphanage pictures.

"Why is Theo at our flat this early in the morning, anyway?"

"It's not early. It's 11:30. Daphne's here too. Meeting. Remember?" Hermione leans up against the counter and smirks at him. "I think they like meeting here instead of my old place because there're more places to sit."

"Morning, Draco," Daphne chirps from the living room to his visible grimace. Theo smothers a grin at her overwhelming, purposeful perkiness and the sheer misery it's causing Draco. "I love your flat."

"Why is she trying to kill me," he hisses at Hermione as he searches in vain through about cupboard. "What did I do to her?"

"I think she might be amusing herself at your expense," Hermione pulls a bottle out and holds it towards him. "I think this is what you're looking for." He reaches for it and she pulls it away. "Say 'please'."

"And here I always thought you were a nice person," he makes a swipe for the bottle and she snorts, stepping backwards, closer to the sink where she pantomimes pouring it out.

"You thought nothing of the kind."

"_Please_ give me that potion," he wheedles and she laughs and holds it out to him, yanking it back one more time before finally handing it over.

If Hermione's old flat was a dump, Draco's – now theirs – is a modernist delight. It has almost as much light as her previous place but it also has furniture it's simply and tastefully decorated in greys and creams, courtesy of Narcissa, and is coolly inviting without feeling cluttered. Theo has pictures spread out on the table by the couch, Daphne's sorting through piles of paper and making notes on a pad of paper.

"What are we doing today," Draco sets the bottle down and glares at his grinning wife. "You are _not_ a nice person, by the way."

"Ah, but I'm _your_ not-nice person," she teases. He rolls his eyes and mutters something about the myriad ways he could stop her mouth. "Company," she chides and adds, "and we're working today. Daphne's going to write the orphanage expose. We want to time it to appear shortly before Astoria outs Harry."

Theo holds up one shot, the picture of Æthel she'd been struck earlier, and asks, "Who's this."

"Not sure," Hermione sighs. "Death Eater's daughter, most likely, but, like most of the children, no one's claimed her. If she had a family to go to, she'd be there." Theo studies the shot, watching the toddler on the girl's hip squirm in an endless repetition while Æthel herself stares out at him. "Why?"

He slides the photo back onto the table. "Lead with that image," is all he says.

Draco walks over and picks it up, settling down onto the couch. "I wouldn't want to cross her," he mutters, looking at the girl. "I think she'd take my head off."

Hermione leans over his shoulder. "She's a nice kid. Smart. Does what needs doing. She's too old for her years, of course, but she's a survivor. I wouldn't bet against that one."

"What do you plan to do with them," Theo's asking. Daphne has handed him a draft of her article and he's marking it up. "I mean, once we use them to outrage the public and all." He crosses a line out. "You can't say this, Daph, we aren't releasing that bit until the economics reveal."

"When will that be," the woman's sucking on the end of a pencil and Theo reaches over and pulls it out of her mouth.

"I think those things may be toxic." He crosses out another line in her draft. "Blaise and Luna are working on a project to bait that particular hook."

"Luna?" Daphne makes a face. "Am I the only one who thinks that's a bad idea?"

"No," mutters Theo just as Draco says, "Hardly."

Hermione huffs out a sigh but ignores all of them. "Adoption or fosterage would be my choice. There just aren't that many kids and, at least if Astoria's midwife's hints are any indication, there are plenty of pureblood families with fertility issues looking for babies to adopt."

"These kids aren't babies," Theo objects.

"No, but they're mostly pureblood, or at least half; muggle-borns tended not to lose their whole families in the war. You want babies, you'll need to settle for muggle-born." She shrugs. "Assuming that project gets anywhere. Can we stay focused on this one for today."

"I think we should add research into those would-be adoptive families," Daphne makes a note on the next page of her pad. "I think we should have a list ready before the article goes out, people we trust enough to contact directly about either the orphanage or changeling project."

Hermione shakes her head. "It's a good idea, but limit it to the orphans for now. We can't institute the changeling idea until we're actually in power."

"Will do," Daphne crosses 'changelings' out.

"I want her," Theo taps the photo. Everyone turns to look at him and he says, seriously. "I need an heir, even in my current post-war looted state, and I don't have any intention of marrying some brain-dead pureblooded bint to get one. She's old enough I'll have missed the godawful toddler stage. I'll go meet her, talk to her, but…"

Hermione's around the couch and hugging him tightly before anyone else can react and he's squawks out "Breathing, Lady, I need to breathe to adopt the kid" before she lets go.

"My niece," she grins as she holds up the picture again.

"From abandoned Death Eater brat to near royalty in one fell swoop," Draco looks at Hermione. "Are you planning on us taking one in too?"

But she shakes her head. "We have to keep the succession line clear."

"How's that going, anyway?" Daphne asks. "You know, you should be taking pre-natal vitamins even before you conceive for optimal fetal health."

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise quickly peruses the papers Luna has printed up for them while he waits for the water to boil; there's a mock of one section of a popular British expatriate publication with an article touting the strength of the economic miracle that is Greece. Another one-off duplicates an American financial journal analyzing under-utilized investments; it dwells heavily on the wonder of emerging Russian markets.

Luna looks at Blaise over the paper she's reading, an actual paper rather than one of her fabrications. She sits cross-legged wholly naked in a sunbeam. "Did you read about the woman who appeared at St. Mungo's?"

"Women appear at St. Mungo's all the time. Apparition – you just magically appear." Water ready, he first brews and then pours each of them some tea; one of the nicer things about Luna, he has discovered, is she doesn't object to long periods of silence, especially if he is making her tea. "Was something especially interesting about this one?" he finally adds.

"Mmm. She seems to have been attacked by something that ate her memories."

"Beg pardon?" Blaise raises his brows and hands her the tea. "Be careful, that's hot."

"She has no idea who she is, how she got there, or anything she's done, pretty much ever. She's tabula rasa. Probably didn't wear her fairy stone."

"Her what?" Blaise settles down next to the naked blonde and starts to run his fingers through her hair as he reads over her shoulder. Sure enough, their little spy was admitted to the hospital suffering severe amnesia and an apparent brain bleed.

"If you go into the fairy lands without wearing one, when you come out all your memories of that time are gone. She must have been there a while. Time is not linear with fairies" Luna pauses to sip her tea. "Or devoured by monsters. Also a possibility."

Blaise kisses her neck. "Perhaps I can devour you?"

As he sets his tea cup carefully out of the way and proceeds to work on that idea he wonders when he can meet with Theo. Today? No. Tomorrow, maybe. Definitely soon. Something needs to be done about Luna.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N**_ Thank you, again and again, for taking the time to read, to review, to generally spend your precious time reading my words. It's pretty much the biggest compliment ever._

_I offer the special love that can only be shown by answering reviews at an ice rink with a w-fi connection that makes dial-up seem speedy (the pain, it is real) to people who were so wonderfully nice as to take the time to review: Chester99, dulce de leche go, my name is mommy, pagyn, Gullb3rg, Grovek26, ziva10, hoshiakari7 rosierocks30, LadiePhoenix007, Sora Loves Rain, Pank98 _


	15. Chapter 15 - Things Written Down

Daphne makes the final edits to the nasty little limerick she's been working on all week and eyes it with satisfaction. She'll send it off to Pansy, who plans to imperious the typesetter to get into the next edition of the _Prophet_. Within a day the underground will be repeating it and, assuming all goes according to plan, people will be snickering about the uselessness of the Order for weeks to come. When this one peters out, she'll slip another one into the ether, and then another one, until no one remembers when they first started to think of the Order as incompetent and avaricious, until it becomes common, unquestioned knowledge. Let Theo explain complicated economic improprieties; she knows a vicious rhyme will spread and color people's perceptions far more thoroughly than any article in a financial journal.

_A Phoenix once came to Pawtucet…_

Let those light bastards take her wealth, shame her family. She'll laugh last.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I can't believe she actually married him," Ginny mutters, shoving the paper, folded over to the society section, across the breakfast table to Harry.

"I already knew," he shrugs and slides the paper back to her. At her shocked look he adds, "I went. I wasn't invited. She made that pretty clear when I spoke to her one day – Ron and I tried to talk her out of it, to be honest - but it was in a public park so I went and watched the ceremony."

"Why?" she wrinkles her nose in disgust. "She's not exactly a friend anymore, hasn't been for years, and marrying _Malfoy_? It's like a bad joke or something, or one of those awful paperback romance novels my mum reads."

Harry shakes his head. "I would have sworn it was some kind of trick of his, something manipulative and nasty, but, Merlin, Ginny, you should have seen him. He stared at her like she was the first ray of sun he'd seen in a lifetime of clouds. She looked cool and detached but him, it was downright scary how much he hung on her every smile. I think he'd walk into hell just to get her a stick she fancied."

"So?" Ginny spoons some eggs into her mouth. "It's still Malfoy. He's a prat and a dick and an elitist. What's he doing with our poor little muggle Hermione? I can't believe it's really all about true love, however besotted he may seem."

Harry snorts and reaches for the marmalade. "Hardly that. It's just…" he starts to spoon out of the jar onto his toast, "You know, everyone thinks of Hermione as being this goody-two-shoes, but she's not. She can be pretty ruthless when she decides it suits her. We wouldn't have won if she weren't. I just think – what if I was wrong about him using her? What if it's the other way 'round – what if she's the one using him for something?" He stares at the toast, now neatly covered in the marmalade, and shakes his head. "I just can't figure out what she'd want. She's already turned down money and fame. I thought she just decided she preferred a quiet, ordinary life; I don't know what she'd want that she'd need him for, that she couldn't have gotten with us."

Ginny shrugs and waves over a house-elf to take her plate. "What's your point?"

"I just wouldn't want to be in the way of whatever she cares about enough to marry Malfoy – to bloody well enthrall the man for - to get. He'd probably kill anyone who looked at her cross-eyed, and she – we all call her the brightest witch of our generation and, Gin, it's not an exaggeration. Between them, she's going to get whatever she's after."

Ginny laughs and rises from the table. "I think you overestimate her. She gave up every chance she had after the war to be, what? An assistant to the deputy rune translator or something? And now to marry a man who lost more money and prestige than I even knew it was possible to have. She couldn't hack it in the wizarding world, my love. It's sad, but true. She was a good help to you in the war, and I suppose it's sweet you went to see her marry that prat, but she's just not able to keep up anymore. Some people just can't. It's a huge shift, I'm sure, to go from one world to another. Not everyone handles it as well as you did." She kisses him on the cheek and heads towards the door, adding before she leaves the room, "Of course, I'm biased because I'll never forgive her for leaving Ron. After she took off he became… wild."

Harry watches Ginny leave. He knows she's meeting friends for lunch, going shopping, visiting her mother. He thinks about Hermione, cast aside by Molly, and wonders if the Weasleys hadn't turned their backs on her would his old friend have been so ready to slip into Malfoy's apparently waiting arms or would she'd have been out shopping with Ginny today instead. The scar on the back of his hand taunts him. 'I must not tell lies.' Lies of commission. Lies of omission. He'd long ago lost the simple purity he'd felt as a righteous seventeen-year-old fighting evil; adulthood had arrived with its endless small compromises. He pulls the photo of Hermione in her wedding dress back across the table and looks at her, smiling at him, and whispers, "What are you doing, Hermione, and why is Malfoy helping you?"

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Ron rarely reads the morning paper but today he's made an exception to enjoy another one of the _Prophet's_ glowing opinion pieces about Harry. "Damn right," he mutters to himself, shoving another scone into his mouth as he sees the words 'only a person of impeccable, unquestioned virtue can be trusted to lead our world after the last two wars. What we need now isn't experience but someone with a keen sense of right and wrong.'

He flips the page, brushing crumbs to the floor with the other hand, only to meet the article about Hermione's wedding. He can't believe it; the stupid bint had actually gone and married Malfoy. What a horror show, and such a ratty wedding too. He snorts out a laugh at the idea of that smug bastard getting married just like normal people, like _poor_ people. And poor Hermione, tying herself to someone who makes her get married that way; are those _cinder blocks _behind her in that photograph? He looks through all the pictures, fascinated and disgusted. What he finally finds even worse that the cinder block bridal shot, even worse then the picture of her and that ferret dancing, is the shot of Nott – that bloody ponce Theodore Nott – getting ready to walk her down the aisle. She and Nott are sharing a look the lays bare what's clearly become a strong friendship. She trusts the tosser. The more fool her, he thinks. He's regretted the way their relationship ended for years but now he thinks he's clearly better off without her, that she'd deserved everything.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Blaise casually leaves one pseudo-paper, the one touting the wonders of investment in Russia, in the coffee area he knows Percy Weasley visits. He puts the other, this one singing the virtues of Greece, into a pile of inter-office mail destined for Arthur Weasley's desk. Luna may be nuts, and she may be dangerous, but he has to admit she did an excellent job printing up fake papers.

Here, fishy fishy, he thinks to himself.

. . . . . . . . . .

"She did what?" Molly Weasley stops, fork halfway to her mouth.

"I take it you haven't looked at the paper yet today?" Ginny arches her eyebrows at her mother and takes a sip from her wine glass. "Hermione Granger married Draco Malfoy, a simple little ceremony in some grotty park. They took a brief honeymoon and now they're back, doing whatever it is they do."

"She's the assistant to the deputy rune guy." Lavender chimes in. "Remember when I was dating him?"

"Wasn't he the swot who always wanted you to read his poetry?"

"That's the one." Lavender snickers. "Which he wrote _in runes_. As if."

"What does he do?" Ginny stabs her fork into her tenderloin and slashes at the meat with her knife. "Malfoy, I mean."

"Nothing, as far as I know," Lavender shrugs. "Sulks about losing the war, I suppose. Stares at himself in the mirror?" She shoves her braised cabbage around the plate, nudging it this way and then that with her fork then adds, "If what Ron said about little miss perfect is true, what he's _not_ doing is having great sex."

Ginny starts to cough and for a few moments both of the other women watch her. When she's regained composure she takes a quick sip of wine before saying, "Merlin, Lav, don't say things like that when I've got food in my mouth. I nearly choked!"

"I never really trusted that girl," Molly Weasley states, giving both women a quelling look. "Sly. Very sly." She goes back to her lunch. "It certainly doesn't surprise me that if she couldn't have Harry or Ron she'd go for some would-be aristocrat. Sly and deep."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"I need a spell."

Blaise looks up at Hermione, rises to catch her fingers in his hand, press his lips to her hand. "Lady. What can I find for you?"

"I want something that will make a person more susceptible to alcohol."

"Something to make a cheap drunk?" He reaches for a book behind him but she's shaking her head.

"More than that. I want the person to become more easily drunk, but also more easily addicted, more prone to take comfort in a bottle."

"So, I take it this can't just be a potion I dump in a glass?"

"Needs to be targeted to the individual and preferably something we can do from afar."

"Can I tell Theo?" At her questioning look he sighs. "My mother specialized in tricks to make herself more appealing, more desirable. You want a rare spell to make a specific man decide he wants to marry you, will everything to you? My home library is the place to go. Nott, however, he has a wider array of black arts books and no interfering mother to ask why we're reading them." He pauses. "It will likely require blood. Things designed to be targeted to an individual usually do."

"Get me the spell first. We'll get the blood."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Draco sits behind Hermione on the bed, finger-combing out her curls as she reads letters to the editor. She's taken to tallying how many of the anti-Order screeds are plants and how many are just spontaneous expressions of frustration and today's 'everything is so expensive since the war, I blame the Order' letter didn't come from one of theirs.

"I love it when we don't even have to work to get people riled, they just rile all on their own." She slouches back against him and he plucks the paper out of her lap and sets it to the side before wrapping his arms around her.

"Is Daphne's poem making the rounds?"

"Oh yes. I saw the last line, obscenity and all, tacked up on a board in the lunchroom this morning. It was gone by the afternoon, but popular opinion is slowly shifting." She lies back and feels the curve of his body beneath hers. "Pansy's articles on how incredibly wonderful Harry Potter is and how his unadulterated virtue – I specifically asked her to manage to include the word 'unadulterated' – makes him the perfect ministry candidate seem to be grating one people's nerves too. I overheard two people at lunch talking about how 'it's not that he's young that bothers me, it's that he's so callow – nothing but playtime since the war.'" She laces her fingers through his.

"How's Astoria?"

"Cooking. It'll be time for the grand reveal soon enough."

"Did you really get Pansy to work in 'unadulterated'? Why bother? No one's going to notice that wordplay."

"I will. It amuses me." Hermione sits for a bit and listens to him breathe, lets her fingers twine in and around his. "I really," she pauses. "I really appreciate this."

"You're being cryptic."

She pulls herself forward and twists to face him, leaning on one arm while slipping the other hand back into his. "This. You. Us, whatever we are."

"Married." He shakes his head. "We're married. And you 'appreciate' me. Be still my beating heart."

She grins at him while continuing to twist his fingers in and around her own. "I didn't even expect to like you, don't be greedy."

Pulling that hand, those twisting fingers to his mouth, he murmurs silkily, "Surely you aren't under the delusion that I'm a modest and humble man, content to settle for second best? When I have the very best sitting here in my bed? I thought you knew me better than that." He pulls her fingers into his mouth and slowly sucks on them while watching her eyes, running his tongue around her knuckles, finally scraping his teeth along her skin before sliding back. Her can feel her pulse starting to race in the wrist he's still got pressed against his hand and her pupils are dilating. "I'm very, very greedy." With his other hand he starts to trace the lines of her face, trailing his fingers along her brow, across her cheekbone, down the edge of her jaw. "Brilliant, beautiful woman." He takes his thumb and pulls it along her lips, jerking it back when she goes to bite him. "Play nice!"

She smirks unrepentantly and moves to straddle him; she's got one knee on either side of his hips as he leans up against the headboard. "And why would I do that?" she asks him as he slips both hands under her and pulls her tightly against him.

"Because," he whispers in her ear, "you want me to be nice to you."

She wraps her arms on each side of him, snagging her fingers in his hair and holding on. "Nice? But I thought you were treacherous," she runs her tongue around his lips, then leans nips at the bottom one where he's opened his mouth in a gasp. "Dangerous. Now you tell me you'll be nice. What's a woman to believe?"

He starts kissing down the line of her throat, then runs his tongue back up to her jaw and starts gently biting at her, slowly working his way up towards her ear. "I'm only nice to you," he breathes. "But if you let me I think I can be very nice indeed."

"Mmm," she leans her head to the side a bit, giving him more access to her skin. "I understand you're my favorite."

"Oh yes," he murmurs, "And I do so want to make sure you properly appreciate me, Lady."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Narcissa Malfoy holds a note from Miss Parkinson in one hand, an invitation to a baby shower, if a note emphasizing the need for absolute discretion could possibly qualify as an invitation. Astoria Greengrass, notably absent for months, distinctly unmarried, would appear to be having a baby. 'She's miserable,' Pansy had written. 'Her own mother won't speak to her. Hermione would kill me - probably literally – if she knew I were writing to you but Astoria needs someone, someone not her own age, to pardon her fall from grace. Please come and act as if it's a normal shower. It would mean a lot.'

Pansy assumes she, Narcissa, knows something, something Astoria's own mother clearly doesn't. How fascinating.

She looks at the _Prophet_ in front of her. It's an unusually interesting issue with dirty limericks, wedding pictures from an affair she regards with the smug pleasure evoked by successfully pulling off a complex bit of social engineering, and an article about Harry Potter that had made her feel ill the first time she'd read it, then thoughtful the second time. Now, holding Astoria's shower invitation, she can't help but laugh at the word choice. "Unadulterated". So that's how her new daughter-in-law plans to remove Potter from the board. Ah, Draco, she thinks. You chose very well indeed.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Hermione opens the folded note, tucked into her pile of books. _ Fishy took the bait. _ She wonders which bait. Will she be sending Blaise to Russia or Greece?

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N **__- I don't suppose anyone's better at limericks than I am who might want to finish Daphne's poem?_

_Thank you, all of my readers and reviewers. You are the best. I also realized this got added to community and that makes me all squeaky and flattered and happy, so thank you!  
_

_Thank you especially to: dulce de leche go; LadiePhoenix007; Pank98; lumoslit; sweetdreams; pagyn; rosierocks30; guest; hoshiakari7, Chester99, SnowCharms, FishyLovesYou, GTH, Analena, lakelady8425._


	16. Chapter 16 - The Constant Moon

Draco pulls another old book towards him and rubs his eyes. Paleography was never his best subject, and some of these old spell books are nearly indecipherable. Text after text, miserably faded handwriting taunts him with spells that aren't quite right, not even right enough to be tweaked into something that will suit. "C'mon," he mutters. "I just want to turn a stick of wood into a dead baby, why is that so hard."

"Maybe you should take a break?" Hermione looks up from the couch where she's reading economic statistics. "Maybe I should take a break. If I read one more thing from Percy Weasley justifying debased coinage I may scream."

"I'm not making any progress, Hermione. You want a change that's undetectable down to a cellular level, and that doesn't change back, and I just can't figure out how to do it. Getting the change is easy enough but keeping it in place for an undetermined period of time – I just can't figure it out." He buries his face in his hands in frustration. "I'm failing you, at the one specific thing you've asked of me. I can't take a break until I've got at least an idea of where I should be looking."

"Dinner." Hermione stands up, tosses her folder of purloined memos to the side and stretches; he looks at her in exasperation.

"Didn't I just tell you I can't take a break? I'm stuck, well and truly stuck."

"And here I thought you were mine, going to take care of me, that you were my favorite tool?" She's pulled her wand out and is running it through her fingers, staring seriously at him. "Don't make me hurt you just to get food. Take a break and come get some dinner with me."

"I can't," he turns back towards the book only to feel her wand point touch the base of his skull, ever so slightly, then trace along his shoulder, down his arm. He inhales sharply and holds very still, locked in place.

"It was not a request."

"Hermione." He pauses, then tries again, "Lady…"

"I am very fond of you, you know, and while having you bound to me is.."

"Wait." He interrupts her. "What did you say?"

"That I wanted dinner." She's moved from dangerous to just annoyed but he's not paying enough attention to notice that.

"No, just now. Bound. Bound to you," he starts flipping through the manuscript with no respect for the condition of the pages. "Yes!" Spinning out of the chair he scoops her up and kisses her. "You're a genius. I'm a genius. We bind the transformation to a living person – I suppose an animal might work too – and we can use their life force to keep the change stable; it needs to be a three-way spell, not a two-way. A person could just release the binding when it didn't matter anymore, an animal we'd presumably have to kill. I've got it!" She's laughing at him as she watches his mind race down the paths of spell creation. This is the man she's come to adore, the steel-trap mind, the ruthless pragmatism. She's still hungry, though.

"Can we get dinner _now_," she asks.

"Wait," he teases, "that sounded like a request."

"Don't make me go all Dark Lady on you just to get something to eat." She stamps her foot, still laughing.

"You, my sweet, can go all Dark Lady on me anytime you want." And, as he grabs her and spins her around she thinks, again, that this is such a lovely, unexpected bonus.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Blaise groans internally when he sees Pansy. Yes, she's a dedicated ideologue, and, yes, she's doing her bit, though writing gossip columns isn't exactly the hardest task ever, but she's just so unbearable. "Shopping?" he looks at her bags.

"We're having a small shower for Tory." She waves him to a seat across from hers and, smiling at her, he takes it.

"She's well, then?"

"She's miserably fat and hating her life. If wishes could kill, the father of that baby would be dead a dozen times over; if she goes late I think she might try to reach up and drag the baby out with her own hands. But, she's healthy, the baby's healthy. Still – " Pansy signals for a waitress, " – I doubt she thought she'd ever be shunned or hiding out in a remote cabin with only Greg and Daphne for company. And Narcissa Malfoy, of all people."

"Just coffee, thanks," Blaise smiles at the waitress, whose eyes widen slightly when she recognizes him but who makes no overt greeting. "Is she having second thoughts?"

"Noooo," Pansy draws out the word, and bends over to fish through a bag. "Isn't this the cutest thing ever?" She's holding out some kind of minuscule baby outfit and, recognizing his cue, Blaise says, "You've always had great taste, Pans."

Taking his coffee from the waitress, he eyes Pansy as she puts her, well, whatever that baby thing was, back down. "I'm serious, Pans. Is Tory okay? Do we have to worry she won't do it?"

The other woman shakes her head, tears a piece off the croissant she's ordered. "No, she's totally committed, especially now that Narcissa's been reassuring her that she won't be banned from all society forever. I think she's looking forward to that bastard' Potter's fall in some really personal ways. Turns out he's not the nicest date ever, if you get my meaning." Popping the bread in her mouth she adds, "Men are pigs, Blaise."

"Says the woman talking with her mouth full."

She snorts. "If I have to write one more glowing bit of hagiography about him, knowing what I know from Tory, I may be ill. She wasn't the first, you know, not even the first to get knocked up; he's just convinced the rest of the women to end their pregnancies. We may get some bonus women coming out of the woodwork after she outs him." She rips off another bite of her pastry. "I wonder if Ginny knows. I mean, how could she not, but people are amazingly good at not seeing unpleasant truths."

"That they are," Blaise rises and murmurs, "With your gracious permission, Pans, I should be off being productive. Please send Tory my love and best wishes."

"I will." She looks up at him, "And, Blaise? Be careful of Luna."

"I am," he looks at her seriously. "We all are."

"I know someone who's not."

"You can take the girl out of Griffindor," he mutters. "But you can't get the bloody Griffindor out of the girl."

Pansy rips off another piece of bread. "I think you should force the issue."

Blaise nods.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Ginny cuts her hand when she's reaching across the bar for another bottle of champagne. "Fuck!" she looks at the girl behind the counter. "What kind of a dump is this? Broken glass on the counter? I could have you shut down!"

"I'm so sorry," the girl babbles, grabbing a very clean towel and dabbing at the blood oozing from Ginny's palm. "Please don't shut us down, miss. Please. We's all depending on these jobs!" A waitress swoops in from nowhere and grabs the offending shard of glass, another is wiping the counter down with another immaculate towel and filling Ginny's flute with the champagne. "On the house, miss, the whole night!" the first girl is still babbling on.

"I should think so," Ginny finally turns away from the trio of hovering staff and smiles back at Harry, who leans in to kiss her.

In the backroom the barkeeper tucks the bloody towel and the shard of glass into a plastic bag, attaches the bundle to the waiting owl. "Off you go," she whispers.

"To the Lady's rise," the waitress murmurs and the other two women quietly agree.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

"Hi," Harry pulls out the chair and joins Luna at her table. She's got papers spread out in front of her and looks up at him with a smile.

"Let me move these things. I'm doing a new translation of the _Mabinogion__. _Have you ever read it? Of course, it's impossible to really get the feel of the original Welsh when you move it to another language but I think…"

"Yeah." Harry hands her the papers from his side of the table and she stacks them into neat piles. "That sounds really interesting Luna. I'll have to read it when it's done."

She smiles blandly at him. "I'll be sure to send you a copy."

"Thanks." He waves over the waitress and orders some coffee. "Do you want anything?"

"I'm good, thanks." She holds up an empty cup of tea. "It's nice to see you, Harry. It's been a while."

He taps his fingers on the table. "You're close to Hermione still, aren't you? I mean, you were the bridesmaid at her wedding."

"I suppose." Luna shrugs. "We have some common interests."

Harry leans forward, "What?"

"Translation." Luna smiles again. "Not that Welsh and runes really have that much in common as languages of course, but the theories and issues of translation certainly cross over. Did you know that – "

Harry cuts her off. "What is she doing?"

'Right now?" Luna looks confused. "I assume she's at work. She's found a really interesting volume on inheritance in the 6th century that has some implications for modern common law, especially as it applies to familial business structures. She's been working to get that translated. Some of the vocalic indicators are unclear, however, and - "

"I mean with Malfoy." Harry takes his cup from the waitress who flicks a glance at Luna. The blonde woman sits and shakes her head, almost undetectably, and the waitress seems to relax a little.

"Can I get you two anything else?" she asks.

"No, everything's okay," Luna fishes some money from her purse. "Let me get your drink, Harry."

Once the waitress walks away Luna leans back into her chair and starts to twirl her hair around her finger. "I assume she and Draco do things reasonably similar to what Blaise and I do. Though," she bites her lip, "I doubt Draco does that thing with his tongue Blaise is so good at."

Harry looks horrified. "You're… dating… Blaise Zabini?"

"Oh, I wouldn't call it dating." Luna shrugs. "We're having sex. He's quite good."

Harry shakes his head and squints his eyes tightly closed before opening them again, as if he could wipe the image of Luna and Blaise from his mind. "Look, Luna," Harry leans forward, "You'd tell me if Hermione and Malfoy were up to something, wouldn't you?"

Luna blinks at him, then frowns. "No."

"I… what?"

"I really don't think their sex life is any of your business." Luna starts to slide her notebooks into a large bag at her feet. "Though Hermione seems happy enough so maybe Draco does know about that thing with the tongue. I did tell her about it just in case." She smiles what she thinks of as 'my patented dreamy smile.' "It should be common knowledge."

"I really don't care about Zabini's tongue," Harry groans.

"Then," Luna says reasonably, "Why are you asking?"

Harry shakes his head. "I wasn't. Trust me. What are you doing with him, anyway? I thought he was a bit of a … player. You're a nice girl, what would you want with him?"

"The tongue." Luna nods. "I've found that men with experience are a lot more fun. Plus, he's got an amazing library and he's interested in translation theory, or at least he makes a reasonable effort to fake it. And I'm not as nice as you think, Harry. Not if 'nice' means 'shrinking violet'."

"I'm just…are you sure he's not using you?"

She looks at him, very seriously. "Blaise isn't a monster and, even if he were, I'm perfectly capable of being responsible for my own heart, along with other parts of my body. He's no Grendel, tearing my arms off, dragging me down under the lake to some kind of lair. " She frowns at one of her pages and, pulling out a pencil makes a quick note. "He's quite a decent bloke, actually, if still a little caught up in old divisions."

"So," Harry mutters, "Will I at least get an invitation to _your _wedding?"

"Wedding," Luna tips her head to the side and considers him. "Why would I be having one of those?"

"Ummm… the tongue?"

Luna's laugh rings out before she claps her hands over her mouth and shakes silently. "Oh, Harry. I have no intention of getting married. I thought it was women whose thoughts jumped from admiration to love to matrimony, not, well, not yours. He's delightful. He's clever, creative. He's wonderful to look at, especially naked. But… we're both just having fun; well, I'm having fun and he's made no complaints so I assume he must be as well. I don't need true love or completion or anything like that." She pauses, then asks, tapping her pencil on her nose. "Why are you so interested in Hermione and Draco, anyway?"

"I just," he runs his hand thorough his hair and shoves his glasses up, "I think she's up to something."

"Sweet Harry." Luna sighs. "We're all up to something."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione admits to herself, as she's shoving her wand into Blaise's neck, that she really had brought this on herself. She's both encouraged initiative and hasn't properly nipped the boys' paranoia about Luna in the proverbial bud. Still, she hadn't expected to find them holding the woman hostage in her old flat, demanding proof of her loyalty.

Draco had immediately backed off when she'd walked in; one look at her face and he'd tossed his wand down, held his hands up, and flattened himself against the wall. She'd immobilized Theo with one quick flick of her wand before hurtling herself at Blaise and forcing him down to his knees.

His expression indicates, as she glares down at him, that he's beginning to recognize he might have miscalculated.

"So," Hermione's voice lacks all inflection. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain what is going on here."

"We hadn't done anything," he's trying to maintain eye contact. "We were waiting for you, I swear."

"That's funny. I wouldn't call disarming and holding an ally – a close and trusted ally – at wand point 'not anything.'" She jams her own wand harder into his neck. "I'll do you the honor of assuming you had a good reason for this cock up. A good reason you will now explain to me."

Luna's retrieved her own wand and pulled a notebook from her bag. "I assume," she says, "that the underground network tipped him off I had tea with Harry today." A quick rummage in her bag yields a dictionary and as she's settling down in what is still the room's only chair she adds, "He's weirdly interested in your sex life, by the way. Harry, I mean. I think he and Ginny might be having problems."

Hermione throws her a conspiratorial grin and says, "If they aren't yet, they will be soon."

Luna raises her eyebrows and asks, "Just about ready to go public with the baby?"

"As soon as she's born," Hermione agrees while the boys all stare at the two women. "Honestly," Hermione pulls her wand back and smacks Blaise across the face with it so hard the sound makes both other men flinch. "Am I doomed to be always surrounded by people who think I'm an idiot? Luna," she turns to the woman. "Tell me why a woman showed up at St. Mungo's obliviated recently."

Luna's bent over her translation and doesn't look up. "You had Draco wipe her mind after torturing her. She was planning on turning us all in." She turns a page in her dictionary. "Welsh has a lot of vowels."

"Is that a problem for you?"

"Well," Luna considers. "I find it makes pronunciation something I have to think about which slows down my reading. I mean, 'w' is a vowel." Draco chokes down a kind of half laugh and Luna looks up at him, surprised. "Oh. That. Well, I'm glad I didn't have to watch, and once I knew why Pansy was so determined to keep me talking at a pub I found the whole night kind of amusing. It's hardly what I'd call nice. Still, sometimes monsters are necessary; you don't fight tyranny, not even that of the bureaucrat, by doing embroidery. Knitting, maybe, but not embroidery."

"So," Hermione turns back to Blaise who has turned an unattractive shade of grey. "Now it's your turn to explain yourself."

"It's the things like the knitting," he whispers. "She's so vague, how can we trust her? Then meeting with Potter. Please," he closes his eyes. "just… read her again. Hurt me if you have to, I'll take any consequences you think I deserve but, please, just… I'm - "

Hermione looks at him with disgust. "It's not vague at all. It's a reference to _Tale of Two Cities_."

"He probably hasn't read it," Luna offers. "He's a little weak on muggle literature."

Hermione rubs her forehead. "What am I supposed to do with you, Blaise? Theo? I realize you have a residual bias against people on the other side last time, but this is _this time_. Maybe I haven't been totally clear; we are not setting up an oligarchy but a dictatorship and you, Blaise, you are not the dictator. You are welcome, in council, to give me your opinion and argue with me, but when I make a decision I expect you to bloody well follow it. Luna," she turns back to the other woman. "What do you think the consequences of the papers you printed up will be?"

"Presumably economic destabilization." Luna frowns at something in her book before looking up. "_Allwedd arian a egyr pob clo."_

"Shit like that is why we're all uncomfortable with her," Draco mutters from the wall.

"'Money is the key that opens all locks'." Luna smiles at him.

"Just because you can't keep up with her," Hermione snaps, "doesn't mean she's disloyal or dangerous. I'd think your own mother would have taught you that much." She kicks Blaise's wand across the floor before turning back to Luna. "Don't move, Blaise. I can guarantee you will not like the results if you do." She takes Luna's chin and looks into the other woman's eyes. All three men watch as she shifts through Luna's thoughts, taking her time to sort through layers of metaphor, shifting languages and sudden jaunts into speculation. "What did Harry want?" She finally asks. "In your opinion."

"He's figured out something is going on beyond how much Draco adores you but he's not sure what," Luna shrugs. "He wants me to tell him, of course. I steered the conversation to sex because it made him uncomfortable. He seemed to find the idea I was having meaningless sex just for fun particularly disquieting; I had no idea he was so conservative. That was a bit depressing. Let me know if you'd like me to feed him false information. Or true information. That could be fun, too. People are most easily deceived with truth."

"Meaningless?" Blaise almost squeaks as Luna asks, "Can I go back to my translation now?" Hermione starts to laugh.

"Oh, was that more honesty than you wanted?" She turns back to the man. "Maybe you shouldn't have dragged your quasi-girlfriend to my flat at wand point and threatened her if you didn't want to find out she only liked you for your body and some thing you apparently do with your tongue. For that matter, maybe you and Theo shouldn't have cooked up a little 'watch Luna' plan that involved you sleeping with her. Merlin," she kicks the man then looks up and takes all three of them in with one sweeping glance. "I have, as my loyal vassals have requested, reexamined Luna's loyalty and found it unblemished. Now get out."

"Lady," Theo, released, holds a hand out to her, then drops it at the expression on her face.

"I am most displeased by your lack of faith in my judgment," she glares at him. "Right now you should be very, very grateful I have self-control. Luna knows almost _everything_ that we are doing; she has to in order to be able to fulfill her own tasks and she's quite able to extrapolate much of the rest. Just because you never see me talking to her, or Astoria, or random people on the street, doesn't mean I don't do all those things and, let me reassure you, if Luna weren't able to accept that we're playing dirty she'd have been long gone."

"Lady," Blaise is still on his knees. "Forgive me, when she made a comment about the girl we obliviated, suggested she'd been attacked by monsters…"

"And it never occurred to you that the woman you were deceiving might have been playing you right back?" Hermione snaps at him. "Or to bring that little comment to me so I could have reassured you that she knew because I told her? Or so I could have taken care of it if she were, in fact, a problem? No," she points her wand at him, genuine irritation in her face. "You decided to assume that the lot of you had to handle it behind my back. Are there any other little secrets the three of you are holding on to that I should ferret out?"

"No," Theo takes a step towards her, hand extended.

"Would you care to rethink that answer," she turns her wand on him.

"Nothing that isn't motivated by concern for you," he amends. "Nothing related to our plans."

"Get your wands," she says evenly, "and get out."

The men gather their things, head warily towards the door. Before they leave Luna calls out, without looking up, "Are we still on for dinner, Blaise?"

"Uh," he looks worriedly at Hermione, "yes?"

After the door shuts Luna starts to laugh and, after a minute, Hermione joins in. "It's okay, right, if I make him suffer a bit for this?" Luna asks.

"I'm surprised you're willing to - "

"Oh, I knew it was coming. I rather like him but the way he assumed he couldn't trust me was starting to grate so I've been goading him on the matter for weeks." She rolls her eyes. "They're all very sweet but, for a group of people who pride themselves on their cunning, they can be awfully transparent."

Hermione laughs so hard her eyes are watering by the time she's able to regain control.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N **__In _A Tale of Two Cities_ by Charles Dickens Madame Defarge knits a list of the names of people that will be executed in the upcoming revolution. It's a major symbol in the book, hiding blood-thirstiness within a traditionally "harmless" feminine activity. _

_Special thanks to my most recent reviewers! Don't Trust the Silver Eyes, Girlinthegreen, Chester99, my name is mommy, Jenny Felton (and __thank you__ for all the recs on FB!), Darc-lover, LB123, Astaraya, Analena, Terrence Rogue, Gigipink, GTH, pagyn, Guest, lakelady8425 (__awesome__ user name, BTW), naysaykaybay, Grovek26, rosierocks30, LadiePhoenix007, hoshiakari7, everything is black and white again, Pank98, Anon, Andromanche._

_Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read and review. I'm thrilled by how much people like this. I hope everyone likes manipulative Luna; I know that's not a totally canon take on her character. _


	17. Chapter 17 - Children are Everywhere

_**~ Election Minus Seven Months ~**_

Theo hands Hermione the article rough draft. "All we need is proof that they've lost most of the funds in their international investments and then we're ready to go."

She doesn't look up at him, just takes the papers and starts looking them over. She's still furious about their little stunt with Luna and not especially inclined to chat or smile with the man.

"I am sorry," he tries again.

"So you've mentioned," she says coolly. "More than once. And if I believed you weren't likely to do it again the next time you've decided you don't care for my decision, the next time you think you just shouldn't bother my pretty little head about what you're planning, I would probably be more interested in listening to your excuses. But, as I don't believe that, you're just going to have to stay in disgrace for a while longer." She crosses off one sentence, corrects a minor grammatical issue, and hands the article back to him. "This looks good. Make the minor corrections I've indicated and then, once we have the proof, add that bit and then get it printed." She looks up. "How are you planning to print it, anyway?"

"Luna." He looks miserable and she resists the urge to rub in who their printer will be. "Lady, I…"

"Be grateful, Theo." She's looking back down again, almost ignoring him. "If I were the last one, you'd have been tortured by now for your little lapse in judgment."

"I think," the man mutters, "I'd prefer some quick misery to this. Just get it over with."

"Oh," she glances up again. "This is worse? Good."

"I," he tries again, "I went to meet Æthel." She smiles a little at that and he takes that as permission to go on. "She's, she's wonderful Herm… Lady. She's smart and clever and bossy as can be. And, Merlin, she's going to be beautiful; I'm going to have to… She starts Hogwarts next year and she was all concerned about how she would be able to go and I asked her if she would be interested in being adopted and – "

"Hogwarts is free," Hermione interrupts him. "She doesn't need to be adopted to get an education."

"Yes, but," he shoves a hand through his hair, "children can be… unkind… to poorer classmates. You know that. I don't want her to deal with that. I want… I want her to have everything shiny and new and…"

Hermione is smiling at him, at last, and rolling her eyes. "She doesn't need a new cauldron, Theo. She needs a family. She needs to be a kid." It's hard to stay mad at the man when he's so obviously already wrapped about this child's finger, when he's being so ridiculously adorable she can barely stand it. This, she thinks to herself, this commitment to our own people, this is what we need.

"I put in the paperwork already and Blaise has promised to fast-track it through the Ministry for me. As soon as she said she'd like that, I had it done. She'll be mine before the election. You think I can't be her family," she can tell that he's forgetting to be careful, that she's mad at him, in his irritation at that idea. "You think because I'm not married, because I'm – you think that means I can't…"

"I think nothing of the sort." She gets up, shifts her way around her worktable and hugs him. "I think you'll be a great father. She's lucky to have you." She wonders how much she'll have to fight him to get the girl on the stage for the formal 'Why, yes, I _will_ be your new Minister' speech but having her faux brother and his fierce, adopted orphan standing behind her would be the perfect tableau. We're about family, it would say. We're about tradition; we're loyal, true to heritage, faithful to our kind come what may. The beautiful thing is, it wouldn't even be a lie. Luna was right, of course, when she said you deceive people so much more effectively with truth.

"I'm lucky to have her," Theo corrects, utterly, perfectly besotted with his soon-to-be daughter, then adds. "Does this mean I'm forgiven?"

"I suppose," Hermione sighs. "I'm still upset with you; you undercut my judgment and risked antagonizing an ally, one who still has a tie to Harry which has all sorts of useful applications. But… if I'm mad at my vassal but I'm also so… just so proud of you. Happy for you. Happy, even, to get to go shopping to get an adoption present for my niece. You'd better not do it again, what you did with Luna; I can't do this if I can't trust you. And," she smirks at him, "it's not like you can go adopting an orphan every time you mess up."

"Well," he looks at her grinning somewhat impishly, "There are 22 more."

. . . . . . . . . .

Pansy hands the muggle clerk her money, hiding her distaste at having to interact with the man, and says, "Now, you're sure this will be anonymous?"

"Weekly deliveries of the finest scotch to one Ginny Potter for the next 4 months, no sender's name given, no name attached to the order. It's all taken care of." He snorts. "Wish someone would arrange to ship me Laphroig every week. You're the kind of friend everyone wants."

"I'd do anything for what, and who, I care about," Pansy smiles sweetly at the man.

. . . . . . . . . .

"How long do you plan on punishing me?" Draco's leaning up against the doorframe of their room watching Hermione writing notes at a small desk.

"Punishing you?" she doesn't look up.

"You're barely speaking to me. Theo and Blaise are both a mess – "

"I spoke to Theo today. He's fine." She signs one note and folds it up, writes 'Narcissa Malfoy' on the outside, drops some wax onto the fold and places her seal.

"When do I get to be fine?"

"You all went behind my back. You did it so smoothly I didn't even realize what you were up to until I walked into my old flat and found Luna on the floor with three men pointing wands at her, one of whom was her lover. That makes me –" she pauses and looks up at him. "It makes me wary, Draco. I know you're all loyal in the most technical of senses but how many other ways do I have to worry about you all choosing to just circumvent what I decide?"

"It's not just technical, that loyalty," he walks over to her, gingerly puts his hands on her shoulders and, when she doesn't object, starts to gently knead. "We'd all die for you, for this insurrection. Literally."

"I don't want you to die," she mutters, putting her quill down. "I want you to listen to me, trust me when I tell you Luna is on our side."

"I don't think any of us realized you'd filled her in on, well, everything." Draco slides his hands down her arms. "We were genuinely afraid that she was too… unstable… to be trustworthy."

Hermione shakes her head. "She's not unstable, Draco. She's brilliant. She sees the world from a different angle than you do, perhaps, but she sees it clearly."

"Please," he whispers. "Come back to me. I'm sorry, Hermione. I made a mistake. We all did. None of us knew her well before, and none of us trust easily. That caution, that's a good thing; it keeps this whole thing going. But, please, stop shutting me out because you're angry."

"No more secrets," she says at last, turning her head to look at his hand on her arm. "No more secrets between us."

"I can do that," he promises her, taking her hand and tugging her away from her desk. "Stop working. Your little love notes to my mother can wait."

Hermione chuffs out a laugh and turns to him. "They're hardly love notes. I'm asking her to set up the party where Astoria names us as godparents of her baby. She, as you've pointed out before and as she's demonstrated, knows how to hit all the right social notes. And Theo's formally adopting Æthel so there needs to be some kind of - "

He lowers his lips to hers and cuts her off. She stiffens but as he draws his hands up her back and pulls he towards him, finally twisting his fingers in her hair she sighs and relaxes against him.

"I'm still mad at you," she mutters, pulling back from him a bit. "You don't get to kiss away your mistake."

"Mmm." He nuzzles her with his nose. "I know. But the silent treatment was going to break me." He spins her around and lays her on the bed and very slowly starts taking off her shoes. "And I think you prefer me whole. I do, however, have one secret I must tell you."

"Oh," she slides up the bed and eyes him.

"Oh, yes." He slips his hand up her leg and runs it along the edge of her knickers, hooking them with his fingers and tugging them down. "Theo, your dear brother Theo?"

"Mmm?" She's only half-listening to him as she pulls her jumper off and tosses it to the side, unhooks the catch in her skirt.

"He has some counsel for us, well, for me but it does concern you." He sits between her legs, pushing the skirt up and out of his way so it lies bunched around her waist as she props herself on her elbows now and watches him through eyes already half-lidded.

"What," she murmurs, "does he want."

Draco lowers his mouth to the inside of her thigh and starts kissing, slowly moving upwards, laughing as she tenses underneath him. "He wants you showing by the day you're sworn in."

"Well," she grabs at his hair and gasps. "I would hate to disregard his advice."

. . . . . . . . . .

Astoria looks up at Pansy and says, her voice totally calm, "I think you should call the midwife."

Greg turns and looks at her.

"Now," Astoria snaps and Pansy fumbles as she races to get the woman.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Lady," Blaise stands in the doorway of her flat, his hat quite literally in his hands. She raises her eyebrows then sighs and waves him in. Marks cover his neck, including at least two clear bite marks. They're subtle against his skin, but clear enough for all that.

"I take it you had a good night?" she asks. He looks confused until she touches her own neck, then he flushes.

"She ate me alive."

"Apparently. I take it you two have made up, you found a way to say 'sorry I didn't trust you, threatened you, held you at wand point'?"

"I, uh," he looks down. "Yes. I did. She also pointed out that I needed to apologize to you."

"Oh?" Hermione leans back and waits. This should be entertaining, if nothing else. She wonders why, exactly, Luna did to the man to cow him so completely. Was it just the proverbial taste of his own medicine – no one, after all, likes to discover they're little more than a chew toy – or has she managed to wrap him up tightly in helpless longing for the unattainable. Funny to think that Blaise, conventional, conservative Blaise, might be falling for a woman who barely even acknowledges social constraints exist. The thought of that brings a gleam to her eye; as much as she likes the man, and she does, watching him hoisted on his own petard is not wholly unpleasant.

"You're not planning on making this easy, are you?" He looks up at her and shudders, quickly looks back down. "I've said before my life is in your hands, I've told you I'd do anything to achieve our goals – your goals. I should have, well, should have had a little more trust in your judgment, or at least brought my concerns to you. It's hard for me to think of one of... one of you… as someone who'd be willing to, well, get dirty to stage a coup, who'd even be interested in going against the Order."

"One of you?" Hermione questions him, annoyed by the implication of the wording.

"One of Dumbledore's Army. One of _you_. She was on the other side."

"So was I," Hermione says dryly. "You seem to have wrapped your brain around that just fine."

"You're different." He looks up again. "Lady, I'm sorry. I erred. I should have trusted you. I beg your indulgence."

She sighs. The formal request is most annoying because now she has to actually deal with him, to either forgive him or unload him and she can't afford the latter; this remains the problem with their faux medieval set-up and she wonders if Luna coached him how to play this as he's doing a significantly better job than Theo had. "Consider yourself indulged." A shake of her head, then, "It's not like I'm wholly honest with you about everything."

"You don't mean the blood status thing, do you?"

"Oh…" she buries her head in her hands. "Just….shite. I don't want to do this again. When did you figure it out?"

He shrugs and walks towards her, squats down in front of her chair. "Don't get me wrong. It's hard for me to think of you as - " he hesitates.

"As a mudblood?"

"Yes." To his credit he cringes a bit at her word choice. "It's hard to reconcile you being, well, you with my built in prejudice. It was a lot easier to think of you as a pureblood; I admit I still do, really. It, just, it fits with how I've always seen the world; this brilliant, powerful woman simply can't be, couldn't be, a muggle-born." He sighs. "But I thought about it, and, well, purebloods don't abandon their children, not ever, really and certainly not to muggles. That's part of what makes that orphanage so shocking. I realized it seemed a lot more likely that Draco and Theo both cared more about power than blood status than that you'd somehow been a pureblood all along."

"Do I obliviate you now?" she sighs even as she reaches for her wand.

"No!" He holds up both hands quickly, warding her off. "No, you don't have to do that! I'm sure most people won't think it through. Draco's prejudice is long established, and Narcissa? Getting her to publicly validate you as a pureblood was brilliant. And… you know how I feel about the risks muggle-borns pose. It's never been personal for me, not like it is for some people. I don't think they're – you're – dirty or unclean or some kind of taboo caste. Just… dangerous. I… my life is in your hands, no matter who your parents were." He bows his head down, clearly not planning to fight her if she does decide to erase this particular bit of knowledge.

She closes her eyes and rubs them. "Does it make you feel any better I agree with you about the risks? That we're working on a plan to close us off more thoroughly from the muggle world, bring all magical babies wholly into our world?"

She opens her eyes to find him down all the way on his knees, face buried in his hands, trying not to cry. "What's wrong? Did you _want_ me to scrub your mind? Because I can if you really prefer it that way."

"No," he chokes out. "It's just… thank you. I don't know what we did to deserve you. We called you names, despised you and you're - everything I'm afraid of, everything I hate about our world, you're fixing it."

Hermione watches him for a moment as he struggles to compose himself, and then leans down towards the man. "Did I ever tell you why my parents - my actual, muggle parents - and I are estranged?" He shakes his head and she waves him up. Once he's pulled a chair over – she's finally gotten more chairs – and settled at a more equal level she continues, "I had the idea, during the war, that if I obliviated them and sent them away they'd somehow be safer."

"That was, begging your pardon, a bit of a dumb idea."

"I know that now," she nods. "Just because they themselves didn't know they were my parents didn't mean a Death Eater with even a modicum of research skills couldn't have figured it out. No one interested in murdering them would have cared they had no idea why they were being killed; hell, that might have added to the spice for some of those people. But I got lucky and no one cared enough to really look, and so they survived. I went to find them afterwards and restored their memories."

She stops for a moment, looks down at the floor and Blaise waits. Finally she continues. "When I was done my father told me what I had done was evil. Evil. He told me that taking another person's memories was erasing that person's very being, that I was as morally culpable as if I had killed them myself." Her voice has started to shake and Blaise reaches a hand out towards her. She smiles wanly at him and goes on. "That I was able to undo it was of no import, he told me."

"That's ridiculous," Blaise mutters. "Only a muggle would rather be dead than..."

"Oh, I don't know," Hermione shrugs. "I don't think I'd care for it, and what we did to that girl, that was pretty wretched. And, as you pointed out, they might well have been killed anyway. At any rate, they told me that magic was clearly a corrupting force, that as alluring and delightful as it seemed at first if it had led me to try to erase their very selves from their minds it was obviously something pernicious. And, well, I refused to give it up. I spent a long while afterwards thinking about whether they were right, whether what I had done to them was akin to murder. I still don't have an answer to that."

"So... you never see them?" he asks quietly.

"Hardly ever. I have a muggle post office box so they can write, which they hardly ever do. I don't use muggle technology, so no phone, no email." She shrugs. "The cultural gap is huge. I'm not sure it can be bridged. I know they don't want to."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"Yes, well," she shakes her head. "If we can place every magical baby in a magical family that won't happen. No sudden shocks at eleven that the things you've been doing aren't imaginary or signs you are suffering from some kind of psychosis. No going to school where everyone else speaks a language you didn't even know existed until a few months before. No more having to walk a tightrope between two worlds."

'What..." Blaise trails off. "How?"

"Draco's working on it. It's nothing we can implement until after the election. It's probably nothing we can do until we're..."

"Until we've gotten rid of that pesky elected office issue?"

"And even then quietly. But, Blaise, it will mean no more divided loyalties."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Daphne sticks her head around the edge of Hermione's door and says, "I have a present for you. Two, actually."

"Oh," Hermione looks up and smiles. After Blaise had had what seemed to be another nervous breakdown on her floor she'd finally managed to chase him away and had spent the last several hours just reading a novel. A muggle novel; she'd have to remember to have a muggle literature class instituted at Hogwarts. No one needed to know about toaster ovens but to lose out on Dickens and Austen seemed criminal.

"It's a girl," Daphne hands her a snapshot. Astoria's hair hangs lankly over her forehead, filthy with sweat, but she's holding a baby wrapped up with a tiny hat pushed down over her head. "Healthy, both are healthy. 7 pounds, 4 ounces. 19 inches long. You can't tell in that picture because of the hat but she's got a head of dark hair."

"We'll give her a couple of weeks," Hermione says, looking at the picture. "Will she be ready to…"

"Oh yeah."

"What's her name?

"Alicia Carys."

"Beautiful." Hermione sets down the photograph and taps her fingers on the table and waits expectantly for the other bit of news. Daphne smiles at her and reaches back into her bag and pulls out a small box.

"One spell, designed by Theo, Blaise and myself, complete with a certain Ginny Potter's blood. You don't even have to slip a potion into her drink. We cast a circle at midnight on a new moon, burn the contents of the box while saying the words and she'll begin to find alcohol an almost irresistible temptation."

"Throw in her husband getting caught in a hugely public cheating scandal…" Hermione smiles back at the other woman.

"And she's toast. She won't be coherent enough to defend him and everyone will assume Potter's little dalliance with Astoria has driven his unfortunate wife to drink."

"I don't suppose you can engineer some kind of stumbling drunken exhibition in public?" Hermione asks.

"Of course I can," Daphne laughs, then she hesitates, adds, "This is dark magic, you know. It's irreversible, damaging. I'm sure if the Ministry had any idea such a thing existed it would be immediately banned."

"Then we'll be sure to follow the eleventh commandment," Hermione smiles. At Daphne's confused look she adds, "'Thou Shalt Not Get Caught."

. . . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N**__ - A note on the girl's names: Æthel is an Anglo-Saxon name meaning "noble." Alicia derives from Alice, also meaning noble. _

_Dulce du leche go and I have started a collaboration on a dramoine alternate universe story, A Bodyguard of Lies (__ s/10762929/1/A-Bodyguard-of-Lies__). I encourage you to check it out because if it's even half as much fun to read as it is to write you'll be happy. It's not fluffy – fair warning._

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed since I last posted. You know how much I adore you. GTH, evizyt, Chester99, Grovek26, Girlinthegreen, Analena, Aero Fairie Extraordinaire, Kitty, Darc-lover, KincaideBabe, Terrance Rogue, lumoslit, Sora Loves Rain, my name is mommy, rosierocks30._

_Your comments are the sweet, sweet kiss of external validation._


	18. Chapter 18 - Introducing Alicia

_**Election Minus 6 ½ - 6 Months**_

"And so I look forward to leading us all into a brighter, more peaceful, more just future together." Harry finishes his campaign speech while smiling beatifically at his audience. They'd set the event up so potential voters could ask him things and his campaign manager had promised he would fill the audience with people guaranteed to toss him nice, easy questions. The seats in the room are filled, quite a few reporters and photographers but also people, the ordinary people, he sees himself leading. Narcissa Malfoy, sitting with a giant bag at her feet, has also deigned to grace the event with her presence. He smugly thinks to himself that she must know which way the wind is blowing and therefore, ever the opportunist, she's decided to publicly align herself with him. Some things never change, though; she may have come to see him speak but she's still looking at him like he's something unpleasant she's found on the bottom of her shoe. Ginny perches on a seat in the front row, the perfect candidate's wife in a smart outfit and tidy little heels; she's smiling at him, ever the supportive partner, still the best thing that ever happened to him. Ron is perched next to her, though he's spent most of the speech discreetly flipping through a quiddich magazine. Well, Harry admits the speech is pablum and Ron's had to hear him practice it so many times the man probably could give it himself. He's still glad to have his best friend there; public speaking like this gives him the shakes.

His team has set up a podium at the front of the center aisle and he recognizes the first woman in line; she's a waitress at a local pub. When she asks, "Do you really think that a candidate's moral fiber is the most compelling reason to vote for them?" he relaxes from a strain he hadn't known he was under. These _will_ be easy questions. Good. He gives her the pat answer he's rehearsed at some length about difficult times and hard decisions in the aftermath of two wars and the woman thanks him, moves aside, and behind her stands Astoria Greengrass.

Astoria Greengrass, who is holding a baby.

"What," she asks, her voice carrying across the silent room, "in this grand vision for our world do you plan to do for your newborn daughter?"

Every head in the room turns to look at her, and just as quickly they whip back to look at him. He can see cameras going off and reporters jumping to their feet as the woman stands there, clearly exhausted from the tribulations of new motherhood but as lovely as he remembered. Lovelier. He looks, panicked, towards the door, an almost instinctive desire to get out, and sees Hermione standing right there, barely inside the room. Malfoy has his arm around her waist and the man is looking at him with a steady, mocking gaze. Hermione looks up at the stage, glances up at him from under her lashes; Harry can't remember her every looking so coy. When did she learn feminine wiles? She brings two fingers to her mouth, kisses them, and then flips the V towards him. He gapes at her, looks back at Astoria, his expression of sudden, dumbfounded understanding caught on multiple cameras. When he looks back at the doorway, Hermione and Malfoy are both gone, as if they'd never been there.

"Mr. Potter," a reporter has jumped up and is waving her arms. "Is that baby yours?"

Another reporter is shouting out, "How well do you know Miss Greengrass, Mr. Potter?" to which some wag yells, "I'd guess pretty well!"

"Does your wife know?" someone calls out and Harry stares at Ginny, sitting in the front row, looking at him with murder in her eyes. She does now, he thinks.

"Miss Greengrass," a reporter has sidled up to her. "Can you prove this is Mr. Potter's baby?"

"I'd be happy," she replies, with quiet dignity despite the storm raging across the room, "to undergo any paternity testing, muggle or magical, you'd like. I am wholly sure this is Mr. Potter's baby as he's the only man I've ever been with."

"Miss Greengrass," another reporter, a gossip columnist Harry things, calls out, "How does your mother feel about you having a child out of wedlock?"

"She's not speaking to me," Astoria's voice hitches a little bit. "Fortunately, Mrs. Malfoy has taken me under her wing and is helping me figure out how to take care of a baby." At that moment the baby makes a noise and every woman in the room coos, as if on cue. Harry looks back at Narcissa Malfoy, the only woman not focused on the baby. She's looking at him, sneering at him. Hermione. Draco. Narcissa. Harry looks back at Astoria, holding her baby, looking innocent and lost and remembers how _filthy_ she'd been in bed. How willing she'd been to do anything, things Ginny wouldn't talk about, things he hadn't even known to dream about.

"You whore," he whispers.

Unfortunately for him, several reporters overhear that comment.

The press conference lasts a long time and with every shouted question Harry sees his political ambitions recede further and further away. By the end, he knows he's done. He watches Greg Goyle escort Astoria away, his big hand gentle on her elbow, Narcissa Malfoy walking slightly behind them, holding that large bag – that diaper bag – in her hands; Harry looks at Ginny, whose expression is not gentle at all.

It's going to be a long night.

. . . . . . . . . .

"You know," Draco props himself up on one side and looks at Hermione, "I never thought you'd give in to the urge to gloat."

"Oh," she looks slightly embarrassed as she pulls the sheet back up over her hips. It's been a long night. "I know it wasn't the wisest thing ever but the look on his face was worth the risk and it's not like he can do anything about it. We won't be announcing my candidacy officially for a few more weeks, not until the economic scandal spreads, and people have such a short political memory. No one will connect his fall with my rise, and if anyone asks why I was there I can just say I wanted to wish my old friend well but I slipped out when I realized what he'd done."

Draco takes a finger and traces it along the curve of her breast. "It isn't enough," he says after several moments of quiet. "Keeping that bastard from becoming Minister isn't enough."

Hermione turns to look at him, a question in her eyes.

"I told you, when we started, that I hated him. I've hated him since we were children and nothing I've learned since has changed that opinion. He's an entitled, arrogant, selfish..."

"The pot calling the kettle black?" she asks with an arch smile.

"Maybe. I still hate him. I want him dead, Hermione."

She closes her eyes and they lie in silence for a while, his finger slowly outlining her. "I'm not done, you know. With him." Hermione's voice is very soft. "And there are worse things than death. A man can only die once; I've told you before, humiliation, his humiliation, all of their humiliation, is something you and I can savor over and over again. And we will. He'll know what it means to beg for mercy, and to beg in vain, before I'm through with him."

"I thought," he spreads his fingers out against her skin, "mercy was the mark of a great man."

"You thought I was a man?" Hermione picks her head up and looks at him. "I think you might have missed something fairly basic in health class."

He bites back a laugh. "Maybe more research is in order?"

"Mmm. I'm always a fan of research," she sighs and flops back down to the bed. "Not now though. You've worn me out. Apparently even a small triumph over your enemies spurs you to new heights."

"Hermione," he's very quiet. "It's not that I'm objecting to your conversion to my way of thinking about Potter. I just… he was your best friend. Are you sure, really sure, you want to destroy him?"

She turns to look at him. "Draco. If I told Theo you hit me, what would he do?"

"At the very least leave me bloody on the floor." He shrugs, then, as realization dawns, "Oh. Of course." He's so glad she's stopped blaming herself; he much prefers her vengeful to filled with self-loathing.

She curls into him. "Oh. Exactly. People change. He's changed. I've changed. I think I can honor the memory of what he was while still recognizing I have to deal with who he is now." She yawns and he tucks himself around her, goes back to trailing his fingers across her exposed skin. "Besides, he shouldn't have demanded I walk away from you, should have taken the olive branch I offered when I did."

"He wanted you to do what?" Draco's finger comes to rest on her hip.

"He wanted to talk me out of marrying you," Hermione is slowly falling asleep. "As if that would have been possible. The day of the wrist thing. He should have realized I'd never leave you, agreed to work with me anyway. Fool."

"Well," his response was, if at all possible, quieter than hers. "You do need me for our little revolution."

"It's not that," she's barely conscious anymore and there's a long silent space before she mumbles, "As if I'd choose him over you, now." Another long pause and he listens to her breathing. He pulls the sheet up to cover her shoulders.

"You chose me?" he murmurs into the quiet room. To be more than blood and guile, to be the choice, he closes his eyes and thinks of that possibility.

"I'll always choose you," her fingers find him, twine around his. "Not even sure why, but at every crossroad, it's always you."

He tightens his fingers around hers, now lax with sleep.

. . . . . . . . . .

_**Harry Potter Withdraws from Race for Minister of Magic**_

_In their efforts to once again place one of their own as Minister of Magic, the Order of the Phoenix has lost a candidate._

_Harry Potter has withdrawn from the race over stunning allegations by socialite Astoria Greengrass that he is the father of her baby, leaving the field wide open for other potential candidates. Potter could not be reached for comment but his long time friend and brother-in-law, Ronald Weasley, said that Potter wished to spend more time with his family._

_Weasley has blamed Potter's withdrawal on 'entrapment', claiming the candidate was deliberately seduced by the considerably younger woman, but Narcissa Malfoy, who has publicly defended Miss Greengrass, says Potter needs to take responsibility for what happened._

_Potter, best known for his defeat of Tom Riddle, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort, in the Second Wizarding War, has spent much of his time since that war enjoying the pleasures of peacetime. Like most members of the Order of the Phoenix he was handsomely compensated for his war service and has not since turned his hand to business, charitable, or government work._

_Potter's fall from grace is particularly brutal, as he had based much of his campaign rhetoric around the need for a Minister with an unblemished moral character._

_With the election a little over six months away many people are asking who could step in at this late date and capture the public's attention. One name that's been floated is Hermione Granger-Malfoy, former member of the Order of the Phoenix and Ministry employee. Granger-Malfoy has never run for office and dropped out of the public eye after the war but remains a well-known war heroine and some speculate her recent marriage to Draco Malfoy would give her a popularity boost among the traditional political powerhouses of wizarding Britain._

. . . . . . . . . .

"Nicely done," Hermione looks up at Draco across the breakfast table. "The article I mean."

"I thought you'd like that," he smirks back at her. "And the best part is…"

"It's all true," she grins at him. "How goes the rest of the propaganda coordination?"

"Pansy has pulled back from churning out quite so many 'lifestyles of people wealthier than you' articles and is focusing on the Astoria angle. We have lots of letters to the editor, easily half of them spontaneous, about how unfair it is that a man plays around and a woman has to bear the brunt of the results. At least four other women have popped up saying they had affairs with Potter too, including Cho Chang – remember her? I wouldn't be surprised if more show up. Potter's apparently a tough dog to keep on the porch, if you catch my meaning."

Hermione nearly spits out her tea.

"You'd think Ginny would have kept him in line better," Draco's continuing on. "I have to admit, that woman scares me a little."

"I suspect they've had a kind of 'don't ask, don't tell' thing going on," Hermione murmurs.

"Maybe." Draco looks doubtful but shrugs. "Once you and Blaise get the Russian thing straightened out we start hammering the economic nails into their coffin. Theo's got rough drafts of the basic articles ready to go, outlining what they've been up to. It's quite a bit so we'll be able to keep that going for a while; Merlin knows trying to wrap my own brain around all the improprieties is hard, so getting hedge witches off in the hinterlands to follow it all might be impossible but the basic overview that the Order has been stealing money and as a result they're all rich and most people can barely afford food is pretty simple."

"And I quit the Ministry?"

He smiles. "In an outrage over the orphanage. We'll run the pictures then and do another article with you and Theo standing there, surrounded by all the little urchins. Theo's not totally comfortable with Æthel being a prop in that story but he'll do it. I pointed out to him that if he asked the girl whether she'd like to twist a knife in the guts of the people responsible for that orphanage..."

"She'd smile the whole time she was turning the handle. A Hufflepuff she's not. She makes me wish we had a ten-year-old son we could engage her to." Hermione drums her fingers on the table. "I need to get on an adoption party for her, complete with that photographer."

"I thought my mother was handling that."

Hermione sighs and puts her head into her hands. "So she is. I'm starting to have trouble keeping everything organized."

"Don't worry about it. I'll keep everything running. You're going to need to focus on being the candidate soon. Let me be the chief of staff."

She looks over at him, "What would I do without you?"

"Sit in the back of a pub and glare at Potter and Weasley from the shadows?"

"Probably." She reaches across the table for the jam, which he slides towards her. "How goes the thing where you position me as the princess-y figurehead who the masses can rally behind."

He shrugs. "I admit I've been focusing on the political angle. Getting you declared queen is a bit of an after-election project, though Theo's casual introduction of the medieval language has been helpful."

"Regent."

"What?"

"I think we should aim for regent, as Theo suggested. Nimue makes the Pendragon the ruler, she isn't the ruler herself."

"You'd settle for that?"

"Settle for 17 or more years of absolute power?" She grins at him as she spreads her jam. "I think I can manage to live with that, yes. And the more we can tap into the feeling that I _am_ Nimue, in some vague and ill-defined magical way, the more people will respond. Romance and poetry, as you like to remind me, rally people far more than economics."

"Funny, I've never thought of you as a romantic."

"Pragmatist. I'm a pragmatist. And if romance works, I'm all for it."

He smirks at her. "Then romance it is, my sweet, horribly mistreated, innocent Lady, ready to rally the common people to her banner, unite us all to crown a king."

"A king who will just happen to be your son," she takes a bite out of her toast.

"So much the better," he leans back in his chair and looks at her, "so much the better."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione reads over the spell looking less and less happy. "You want me to bathe in blood?"

"Only a little," Blaise reassures her. "We just put it into a bath, like bubble bath or something, and you soak for a while and then…"

"_Virgin_ blood?"

"Well, I admit I'm not totally sure that part is necessary but it's probably better to err on the side of caution."

"So we won't be using yours, then?" She cocks her head to the side and smirks at him.

Draco nearly chokes on a pretzel at that, and Pansy manages to hide her face by bending over and rooting through her bag pretending to look for something. Theo just openly laughs and Blaise, wavers between looking offended, irritated and amused.

"I was thinking a baby bird or a ca…"

"I am not bathing in the blood of kittens!" She cuts him off.

He holds his hands up in surrender. "It can be something you'd eat for dinner anyway. How about a rabbit? We slaughter the rabbit, drain its blood into a cup, do the spell and you take a bath while Draco makes you dinner."

"Your assumption I can cook is charming, but misplaced," Draco snorts.

"Merlin. I'll cook the bloody thing," Blaise snaps. "Honestly, how you people survive without an army of servants is a mystery."

"This still sounds incredibly disgusting." Hermione holds the paper between two fingers away from her and makes a face. "How sure are you it will work?"

"Reasonably sure," Blaise puts on the expression he's used his whole life to coax extra sweets from cooks, women into his bed, his mother into extra allowance money. "It's worth trying, right?"

"As vile as it seems," Theo puts in, "I think you should do it."

"Can I borrow those books?" Pansy asks Blaise in an undertone while Hermione reads over the spell again.

"Are you sure you have the translation right?" She looks up. "Romanian is…"

"Close enough to Italian that, yes, I'm sure I have the translation right. And I had Luna look it over. You know how she is with languages."

"Draco?" She looks at him, clearly asking his opinion.

"Oh, do it. Don't turn your back on a potential advantage just because it's messy. We'll kill the bunny, do the spell, you soak in the blood infused water, and then take a shower. After that, you're just magically more appealing. Indoor plumbing makes this seem like a non-issue to me."

She hands the paper back to Blaise and rubs her hands over her face. "Pansy?"

Draco elbows the woman in the ribs when she doesn't respond and she quickly adds, "Yes, of course. You'd be stupid not to. Worst thing that happens is you eat rabbit for dinner."

"Fine," Hermione mutters. "Though I want to go on record that I think some blood magic is really disgusting." She stands up and takes Blaise's hand. "Thank you, Blaise, for undertaking this research project. This independent research project. I appreciate your efforts."

"My pleasure, Lady," he bows over her hand to hide his smirk at getting his way. "I am overjoyed to be of service."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Ginny looks at the headline. The fucking bastard got caught. All she'd asked was that he keep his peccadilloes quiet and now – now, when he's just announced his official plan to run for Minister – a bloody pureblood girl from a good family shows up with a baby in her arms. HIS baby in her arms. She runs down the list of names she keeps in her head and Astoria's not on it. She wonders how many others she's missed, whether they're going to show up in the papers too.

She looks at the bottle of scotch; she'd assumed it was a gift from some political donor, addressed to her to avoid potential any charges of quid pro quo but now she doesn't care. She gets down a tumbler, pours herself a drink, and sits staring at the photo of Astoria Greengrass holding Harry Potter's bastard child.

. . . . . . . . . .

**A/N**_ Thank you, as always, for reading and reviewing and being generally lovely. Lots of internet hugs to everyone who commented since the last chapter, namely: Jadedgurl05, OldestOne30, Aafia, Terrene Rogue, Ghostwriter71, AnnaxVakarian, Grovek26, lumoslit, wintergirlsmith, Chester99, my name is mommy, LB123, Analena, Don't Trust the Silver Eyes, hoshiakari7, rosierocks30, Pank98, mythzzrosenov, pagyn, Girlinthegreen, MorganBScott, SaraLovesRain, Darc-lover, LadiePhoenix007, lakelady8425, GTH._


	19. Chapter 19 - Traps & Shoes Also Books

Blaise has come to one conclusion on this trip: he wishes the Weasleys had fallen for the Grecian bait instead of the Russian bait.

Greece was warm. Greece had sand, and blue skies, and pretty women wearing not very much. Moscow, on the other hand, was cold. It was cold, and grey, and it was impossible for him to ascertain what anyone looked like from a distance because everyone was wearing far too much clothing.

Not, of course, that he's on the market. Luna would kill him if he strayed, or, worse, she would look idly unconcerned and tell him she was about to go off to Bulgaria in search of some imaginary creature anyway and it was just as well. That might break him.

The possibility that a woman might actually break him had never occurred to Blaise before and he doesn't much care for it but there it is. He stomps into the waiting area for the generally unimportant muggle government official he's meeting, thinking a steady series of irate thoughts about women, how all women are insane but that it's just _his_ luck that he would have to fall for one who might, no matter what Hermione insists, be insane in a clinical rather than a figurative sense.

He probably should care more about that. What if her insanity was hereditary? Theo's already snagged the best orphan. He needs an heir of his own. What if Luna didn't want children? What if she only wanted to travel the world in search of whatever daft idea she's latched onto? Blaise frowns. He likes travel, and with enough nannies travel with children could be made reasonably pain free.

The secretary smiles at him, the inviting 'I'm free for lunch and know a hotel that rents by the hour' smile he's seen on the faces of more women than he can recall and he ignores her to ponder what he can bring Luna from Russia that she might like. Nesting dolls seem a bit clichéd. Ugg. What do you buy a woman who wears vegetables as jewelry?

When he finally gets into the dark, small, cramped and thoroughly unpleasant office of the man he's come to meet he shuts the door and imperiouses the fellow instantly, hands him the neatly typed pile of documents outlining the investments the Order of the Phoenix have made in Russian firms, all done with the embezzled government money they've used the orphanage budget to hide. "You need to seize these assets. All of them. Just take them away, government seizure, tuck them into whatever slush fund makes you happy. You can claim it's tax fraud if you like."

The man nods, the usual vague agreement of the imperioused. Honestly, that he'd had to come all the way to this cold, dank, dark office for this seems absurd. It was just too easy; muggles were individually so pathetic and if there just weren't so bloody many of them the world would feel much safer. Blaise smiles falsely and thanks the man for his time then stomps back out into the secretary's lair. She's still smiling at him and he thinks unhappily that, since he's might have to come back to confirm that the man had actually followed through, he should probably try to be polite to this worthless woman.

"What do you think," he asks her with a frown, "should I get my girlfriend as a present?"

. . . . . . . . . .

_A Phoenix once came to Pawtucet.  
Each cherry he saw, he would pluck it.  
Gold and land he would take,  
Promises and laws break.  
Whatever you had, he would fuck it_.

Ron rips down another – another! – one of the anti-Order limericks that's been pasted to the wall. How, he fumes, did we go from being the saviors of the wizarding world to the butt of jokes. I risked my life for you people, he thinks to himself. And now this?

Nothing has been going right lately. The paper is filled with editorials complaining about everything, Harry's candidacy was derailed by that Greengrass tramp, and Percy has been so on edge he's even more of a nightmare to be around than usual.

He glares at Hermione, standing across the street at gate of the orphanage, talking to a reporter with that creep, Theo Nott, standing beside her. He knows it's irrational but he blames Hermione for everything. It seems like as soon as he'd started seeing her around again everything had begun to go wrong. Now she's over there charming the press – the same press that suddenly has nothing good to say about the Order – while some miserable chit of a girl stands pressed up against Nott, her hand tucked into his, her eyes on Hermione, with still more kids standing behind them in the gate, peering around the edges.

He crosses over the street, eager in his current mood for some kind of confrontation, and sneers at his old friend. "I thought it was Malfoy you married. What are you doing here with this bastard? Is the ferret already tired of you?"

Hermione turns to him and he's struck by how cool she seems, how unruffled by his taunt. The girl he'd known had been passionate, easy to rile up but also dumpy and about as sexy as an old blanket. This woman, in form fitting black from head to toe, her hair twisted up, feet tucked into high heels and that bloody ferret's jewelry sparkling from her hand and wrist, this woman might as well be someone totally different; he doesn't know her at all anymore. "Draco and I are happily married, thank you for asking. Nott and I are - " she stops to exchange a glance with the reporter, "we're good friends."

"I thought you were my aunt!" the little girl interjects, with a stubborn thrust to her jaw.

"Indeed," Hermione soothes the child while Ron narrows his eyes, "but I was never acknowledged by his father, and more than you were by yours, so…"

"It's not fair," the girl mutters.

"Well, life's not," Hermione says phlegmatically. "Can I help you with something, Ron?"

"What are you doing?" he asks, looking first at her, then at the reporter.

"Coming by to visit Æthel, mostly." Hermione runs her fingers down the girl's plaited hair. "The paper is doing a little human interest piece on the orphanage and, of course, I volunteer here a bit and Theo's adoption is about to go through so we were logical people to interview – "

"He got me a broom!" the girl announces. "Of my very own! And one for everyone else too!"

"You did," the reporter turns to Theo, quill out. "You didn't mention that."

The man looks slightly embarrassed. "I just didn't want her to show up at Hogwarts never having ridden so much as a kid's broom. And it's not like I could get her one and not get all the other kids one too. I know her, she'd spend her whole day ensuring everyone got their turn."

"A little Hufflepuff, mmm," smiles the reporter, clearly charmed by the confession, "concerned with fairness."

Hermione looks down at the ground without saying anything and Theo glances at the girl, "My little princess looks after her own, that for sure, and I'll be proud of her no matter what house she's sorted into."

"Why're you buying toys for all these kids?" demands Ron. "Since when have you cared about orphans?"

Theo hesitates and the reporter jumps in. "Are you involved with the orphanage as well, Mr. Weasley? I'd love to include your perspective in my article."

"My mum's the head of the board!" he brags. "We're all of us involved. What we do may not be as showy," he sneers, "as buying fancy toys – "

"Or reading to the children," Hermione murmurs.

"- but it does a lot more for the whole place than little feel-good acts of charity."

"So…" the reporter looks at him, "You feel your mother – indeed, your whole family - is responsible for the conditions in which these children live?"

"We sure are," he responds. "They aren't living the pampered life you had as a boy, Nott," he's nearly spitting at the man, who looks more amused than anything else, a condescending expression that infuriates Ron. "Not everyone grows up rich, you know. I was poor as a child and I turned out fine." He turns to Hermione, who's looking at him with a strangely pleased, predatory smile. Ron frowns a bit as she and Nott exchange quick glances and she promptly schools her expression to one of polite interest. What, he wonders, is _that_ about.

"In fact, would you say these conditions are, perhaps, character building?" the reporter continues as the photographer snaps a series of pictures of him, with the children still peering around the walls of the door behind him. Hermione has nudged Theo and Æthel out of the frame, giving the man a better shot.

"Absolutely," Ron responds.

"Can I quote you on that?"

"Certainly." Ron turns back to Theo. "Why are you adopting a kid, anyway?"

"Well, in general I'd say my reasons were private but as I've already discussed them with the lovely lady from the _Prophet _I have no problem repeating them to you." Nott tugs on the end of one of the girl's pigtails and she grins up at him. "I saw a photograph of Æthel and felt an instant connection to her. I'm in need of an heir, of course, and have no real interest in marriage, so adoption seemed a logical solution. I discussed it with the young lady and she was amenable. We're both looking forward to figuring out how to be father and daughter as those roles will be new to both of us."

It was a politician's smooth, rehearsed answer and Ron laughs. "Why no interest in marriage, Nott. Could it be you really are a bloody poof?"

"Don't insult my father," the little girl's voice is low and Ron looks down at her, suddenly uneasy. He'd forgotten that these kids were, with a handful of exceptions, war orphans, and by and large the lost children of Death Eaters no one would claim. Whoever this girl is, she's probably the biological daughter of someone unscrupulous to the point of being evil, and right now she's looking at him like she'd be happy to skin him alive.

"It's not an insult, poppet," Nott's voice holds a warning. "Control yourself. His phrasing may be a bit rude, but my dating preferences are hardly something I'm going to be humiliated by, especially given the source."

"Is _that_ going to be part of your puff piece on this place and his little adoption?" Ron demands, looking at the reporter.

"I hardly think it's relevant to my story," the woman smiles, a shark's grin, at him. "It was charming meeting you, Mr. Weasley. Hermione," she nods. "I'll be in touch."

"Lovely as always, La…ma'am," the photographer almost doffs his hat towards Hermione but seems to think better of it after glancing at Ron and squats down instead to talk to the little girl. "It was good to see you again, Æthel. I'm looking forward to seeing you all dressed up at your big party; will you let me take a picture of you in your fancy dress?"

The girl smiles and nods, all adorable feminine vanity now, and giggles into her hand before hiding her face in Nott's side.

"I hope so," Hermione teases her, "I've already got a frame picked out and sitting on my mantle, waiting for a photo of my favorite niece."

"Your _only_ niece," the girl insists. Ron rolls his eyes; what idiot would believe this fiction that Hermione is Nott's long lost sister, no matter what role he'd taken on at her farce of a wedding?

"True enough," Hermione's laughing at the girl's possessiveness, "but you're going to have to share mantle space with Alicia, I'm afraid."

"Who," Ron demands.

"Alicia." Hermione's shooing the children back into the courtyard and just looks back quickly over her shoulder before shutting the door, before shutting him out with a sickeningly sweet smile. "Astoria's daughter. Draco and I have agreed to stand as godparents."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Godparents," Ginny screams at him. "They're going to be godparents? They can't do that!"

"It's a slap in the face, that's what it is," Molly slams a bottle down on the table. "She never expressed the slightest interest in anything any of you have done and now she's all over that little bastard." The dinner table has been half cleared and, several glasses of wine into the evening, Ron's desire to complain about Hermione has beaten out his desire to avoid his sister's shrieking. "It's not like she and that Greengrass girl were ever even friends!"

"I agree," Ron pours himself a glass of wine, tops off his sister's glass. Now that's he told them all the story of his encounter with Hermione and her 'brother' more wine seems like a good choice.

"It's all a show," Harry says heavily, staring into his glass. "The marriage. The volunteering. She's aiming for Minister."

"What?" Molly looks at him. "That's not possible. She's _muggle-born_."

"What makes you think that," Ginny demands, draining her glass and immediately pouring herself another one.

"It's just a hunch," Harry admits. "But even the papers are naming her as a potential candidate. I'm sure she set me up with Astoria. I'm _sure_ of it. She was _there_, at the event; she bloody well flipped me off from the door. She was just standing there with Malfoy's arm around her, and don't try to tell me she actually cares about that tosser; he's her little ticket to legitimacy with the purebloods, that's all. I don't understand how she could have set me up but she _knew_ what was going to happen…"

"Well," Ginny mutters bitterly, "whatever trap she set, you were more than willing to walk right into it."

"Just give it a rest," he snaps. "Unless you want to talk about Dean in some detail."

Molly pretends not to hear as Ginny slams her own glass down. "It was one time. And, meanwhile, we all know you're basically a revolving door of women."

"That doesn't even make sense," Ron looks at her, watching her wine slosh over the edge of her glass. Harry's oh-so-very-public infidelity has hit her hard.

Harry drops his head into his hands. "I know," he whispers. "I know, but, Ginny, I love you. Just you. You're the most important thing in my life. The others…"

"They don't mean anything?" she asks sardonically.

"Well they don't," he glares at her across the table.

"So," says Ron, trying to get them to drop the subject, "how do we stop Hermione?"

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione squints at the shelf in the bookshop, then pulls one of the books off and looks at it. "I didn't realize you were a – "

"A poof?" Theo raises his eyebrows.

"Not the wording I would have used," Hermione snorts and selects another book.

"Does it matter?" He leans against the edge of the shelf and watches her.

"Of course not. Don't be insulting." Hermione rolls her eyes at him and then adds, "Hold these," as she shoves two books into his hands and kneels down to look at more on the bottom shelf.

"Since when did I become your carrier of books?" he asks, watching her draw her finger along the spines.

"Since you became my brother, obviously." She hands another one up to him and he, with a much put upon sigh, takes it from her. "When did you learn to get makeup out of shirts, anyways?"

"I did experiment, you know, in my misspent youth." He looks at the books in his hands. "Why are we buying muggle children's books?"

"Because it's practically a sin that a 10-year-old girl doesn't have _Anne of Green Gables_."

"And _A Little Princess_?" he holds one book out and looks down at her.

"Yep. And _Ballet Shoes _too." She stands up and brushes dust off her dress. "You know, I wanted to be Posy as a girl, to have some kind of amazing talent that couldn't be ignored or contained. I spent a lot of time trying to stand on my toes thinking I could prove I was special that way."

Theo looks at her and starts to laugh. "You wanted to be a girl with an amazing talent? And out of all the ones you could have picked, out all the ones you _have,_ the one you latched onto was being able to stand on your toes? Really?"

She looks confused, then a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth and she finally grins at him. "Fine, be that way. Just give me the books, you brat, and I'll pay for them and have the clerk gift wrap them for your daughter. And I'll have you know that all that time spent trying to stand on my toes turned out to be very useful now that Draco has me in these ridiculous heels all the time."

"Is he still nagging you about the shoes?"

"Yes," she mutters, looking down at her feet. "It's always 'power shoes' and 'clothes are costumes' and 'look the part' and really, I sometimes wonder if just he has a sadistic streak."

"Of course he does." Theo snorts and offers her his arm to lead her up to the counter. "He's a Malfoy."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Look," the girl passes the magazine over to her friend. "This is so amazing. They did a whole 'Nimue' themed fashion spread.

"Who the bloody hell is Nimue?" the other girl asks.

"Oh gods, you are so stupid." A roll of the eyes. "She's the coolest woman in history _ever. _It's like you don't even pay attention when I talk to you about the way the patriarchy shapes the way we view our past. It's always 'Merlin this' and 'Merlin that' but Nimue? She tricks him, takes all his power. She's the one who _makes_ Arthur king, freaking gives him the sword. She's so amazing. Girl power, hello?"

"I like those shoes."

"Honestly," she snatches the magazine back. "It's like throwing pearls before swine. I try to talk to you about this thing using conventionally oppressive fashion media to present empowering images of women and shit and all you can say is you like the shoes. Your brain is _so_ colonized."

"Bitch. There's no reason a woman can't be a kick ass whatever-Nimue-was – "

"She was a badass magical queen is what she was."

" – and not still wear awesome shoes."

. . . . . . . . . .

"I have a surprise for you," Hermione's come up behind Draco, wrapped her arms around him. He's been standing at the desk, leaning over and checking reports on rural responses to their propaganda – thank Merlin for barmaids and gossips because that's the way he's been keeping track of public sentiment. "Something special for my favorite."

"Oh?" He puts his hands over hers, enjoys the feel of her pressed along his back. "Potter fell on his knees in the street, begged your forgiveness, and you kicked him in the face?"

She laughs. "Better."

"Better than that?" He turns around, leans against the desk and pulls her hips to him. She's freshly out of the shower, damp and smelling faintly of vanilla, wearing something black and silky he's not seen before. "What could be better than that? Other than this," he plucks at the fabric, runs his hands over her, enjoying the feel of it, and of her under it. "I like this quite a bit, I have to admit."

"I thought you would." She bites the inside of her lip and looks up at him. "You know how Theo wanted me showing by the day of the election?"

His eyes start to widen.

"Barring any problems, I will be."

"A baby," he breathes out, and looks at her for confirmation. When she nods he puts his hands, almost reverently, over her abdomen. "My child. Our child." He pulls her into a tight hug and she can feel him shaking slightly as he holds her. "Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you."

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N**__ - Thank you to pagyn for the fabulous limerick. There are more to share in future chapters._

_Posy, in Ballet Shoes, is a bit of an insensitive, self-absorbed twit but she is monstrously brilliant. All three books Hermione mentions are about orphan girls and all are wonderful even if you aren't 10. _

_Thank you so much to everyone who took the time to review. You are my homemade ice cream: Delancey654, dulce de leche go, GTH, Honoria Granger, Chester99, Icelynne, Faebreeze, Darc-lover my name is mommy, ChiffonShock, naysaykaybay, Nansa, Lynn, Girlinthegreen, LadiePhoenix007, rosierocks30, Pank98, Don't Trust the Silver Eyes, Terrence Rogue, lakelady8425, hoshiakari7, AnnaxVakarian, Guest, Ev'rdeen, Analena, mrskiklaus, alettadipollo, Grovek26, pagyn, TheFantabulousPotterHead._

_And, as always, a thank you to everyone who reads. That you give some of your time to read this is the greatest compliment._


	20. Chapter 20 - In Which Moves Are Made

"You are a fucking moron," Percy Weasley slams Ron against the wall of their dining room and holds him there. "I knew - hell, everyone knew - that you were a worthless lotus eater, but what the fuck were you thinking?"

"What are you talking about," Ron gasps.

"You don't even know?" Percy lets him go with disgust. "Have you even looked at the _Prophet_ today? And, no, I don't mean the bloody bedamned society section."

Harry, sitting at the table, pulls the paper towards him and turns it back to the front page. "_Scandalous Conditions at Order of Phoenix Memorial Orphanage_." He looks up at Percy, who's still fuming. "I don't understand."

"They've printed a long expose on that damn orphanage, with pictures – pictures! – of all the children. It's like something out of a bloody documentary about privation." Percy snaps. "Part one of two. Ronald," he draws out his brother's name, "has gone on record - on record! - as saying our family is responsible for the conditions at that place, that they are character building. Character building!"

"So?" Ron glares at him.

"Ron, I think you should look at these photos." Harry looks up at his friend, who snatches the paper off the table. Æthel glares at him from the pages, a squirming toddler on her hip; he recognizes that look. What a bitch that little girl is; she and her new father deserve each other. He flips through the other pictures and admits, at least to himself, that it's pretty bad. He hadn't realized the place was quite that bleak. No wonder even Nott, wanker extraordinaire, had been moved to buy the kids some toys.

Still, he has no intention of confessing that to Percy. "Who cares about a bunch of Death Eater brats?" he asks, tossing the paper back down.

"Oh," hisses Percy, "I think the general public will care quite a lot. People tend to get their chains yanked by pictures of miserably poor children. Funny, that. No one will remember these brats' parents waged a war of terror. What the take away is here is that our family thinks keeping orphans ground down into abject-bloody-poverty is 'character building.'"

"Again," Ron snaps, "so what? What does it matter?"

"There's an election in six months, you maggot," Percy snarls. "An election my job hinges on, an election your _father's _job may well hinge on, and you just dragged our family into the mud with your careless little comment. What were you thinking? And this is just part one. Who wants to bet that part two will follow the money?" The man rubs his face with both his hands. "I am so fucked. We are all so fucked."

"Merlin," Ron throws up his hands. "So we say the place is under-funded and if people want conditions to be better taxes will have to go up. Again, who cares?"

"You might actually be too stupid to live," Percy sinks down into a seat at the table and stares at his brother as a cringing house-elf puts a plate in front of him. "It's as if you have no idea at all how all the wealth you enjoy spending so much shows up in your pockets."

"Hermione," says Harry, abruptly.

"What?" Percy turns to look at the other man.

"Hermione would care, that's who. She'd care a lot about deprived children."

"I'm not following you." Percy leans forward and gives Harry his attention. His younger brother's friend may have shot himself in the foot, politically, but he's always been good at putting random strands together to see the larger picture.

"So what?" Ron mutters. "All she'd do is make up a stupid 'We Love Orphans' club with badges and earnest meetings."

Harry shakes his head. "That's what she would have done at 14, sure. Now?" He looks at Percy. "I think, I really think, that she's gunning for Minister. She'll resign from her little nothing Ministry job in horror over this on Monday and run on a reform platform. This reveal, the timing of it, has her manipulative little fingerprints all over it." Percy grunts and Harry continues. "She was there, at that press event, you know. She was in the doorway; she flipped me off right after Astoria made her little announcement and then disappeared."

Ron picks the pages back up and looks at them again while Percy narrows his eyes. "Ronniekins," he taps his fingers on the table. "Did you do anything to that woman to make her justifiably angry at you? To make her angry enough to decide to go after our whole family?"

"She volunteers," Ron said suddenly, opting to ignore Percy's question. "At the orphanage. And her new best friend, Nott, is adopting one of those hell-spawn. She was there, with a photographer, when I, uh, said that. He mentioned he was going to see the brat again at some party."

Percy looks at both of them. "She was the brains behind your trio, wasn't she?"

Ron sputters but Harry nods slowly.

"And she just married Malfoy, didn't she?"

Another nod.

"In a fucking perfect bloody simple ceremony, practically designed to appeal to every old -school pureblood biddy in the country," Ron says in dawning horror. "With Nott, who's adopting an orphan, walking her down the aisle. Her 'brother' Theodore Nott."

"And she and Malfoy are taking on Astoria's kid," Harry breathes out and all three men look at one another. "What's the byline on those photos?" Harry asks, pulling the paper back to him, searching for a name. "Ten to one says it's the same guy who did her wedding. She has a photographer in her pocket, plus at least one reporter."

Percy looks at his younger brother. "Plus Narcissa Malfoy, and who knows how many other purebloods. If this were a chess game..."

"We'd be in check," the man whispers. "And I walked right into the orphanage comment. Bugger me."

"But not check-mate," Harry says. "Luna."

Ron looks at him, confused. "Looney Lovegood?"

"Luna was her bridesmaid. She's such a scatterbrain I'm sure we can get her to tell us what Hermione's up to. It'll just take a little work to convince her we're friends; she's never had any because she's just so weird. We were friends of a sort once. We can be again."

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione retches again and glares through her hair at Draco. "This is all your fault."

"I…" he looks at her, helplessly. "Can I do anything?"

"Get out," she hisses, reaching for her wand. "Get out before I throw you out."

. . . . . . . . . .

"She nearly took Ron's head off," Hermione's looking fondly at Æthel as she gravely welcomes each guest to her party.

Thank all the gods morning sickness, at least for her, actually restricts itself to the morning hours. Astoria, as she recalls, hadn't been so lucky. If she'd had to come to this party feeling sick she might have killed Draco, or at the very least maimed the man. Given that, most of the time at least, she's rather fond of him that would have been unfortunate. She would have felt guilt. Eventually. Maybe. Being pregnant sucks.

She wonders whether there's a spell to make men feel all the joys of growing another person inside their body. Pansy, she thinks, might enjoy looking that up.

Æthel has been scrubbed and starched and curled until she looks like a beloved child of the elite; in her simple white eyelet dress with a big green bow at her waist you can barely see the grungy orphan from the paper. Not, at least, until you look into her eyes where the same fierce look hides, tapped down under a justified fear of disappointing her 'Aunt Cissa'.

"Did she, now." Narcissa has spent a week ruthlessly drilling Æthel in pureblood etiquette to prepare her for this party. She's more than pleased with the girl; she's smart, as Hermione had promised, but more, she sees patterns. She doesn't just memorize the rules but sees the reasons behind them; she'll charm everyone and no one will suspect the keen mind she's hiding behind those big, blue eyes until it's much too late.

"He tried to insult Theo." Hermione smirks and looks sideways at her mother-in-law who smiles. They've both stepped back to let the girl play hostess, an important symbol. Everyone who comes in greets her very seriously and thanks her for inviting them, flashing Narcissa and Hermione complicit smiles above the girl's head. Every woman there remembers the first time she was allowed to formally greet guests at a party; they all both smooth the child's way and measure her.

"That's surprising," Narcissa murmurs. "The Weasleys aren't generally clever enough to insult anyone."

"I did say 'tried'."

Narcissa wonders which of her late husband's compatriots had fathered the girl, who was her mother; she's researched the history and the child was found wandering near a nest of routed Death Eaters, unable or unwilling to speak, carrying a small back pack with some picture books, some carefully made sandwiches, and a change of clothes, all with her first name neatly written on them.

"She has beautiful manners," the elder Mrs. Parkinson has descended upon them. As usual, she's overdressed and in colors that don't become her. If cornered the older woman admits she enjoys making the perfectly groomed women in her set squirm with her elaborate array of feathered turbans and sparking purple robes. "They can't cut me," she'll say. "They don't dare, so I do as I please." Still despite, or perhaps because of, her eccentricity, her social approval carries a lot of weight.

"She's a good girl," Narcissa agrees. "Can I get you anything to drink, Eustacia?"

"Champagne, please" the woman asks and with a quick gesture Narcissa has summoned one of the catering staff and is passing a flute to her guest. "She does you credit, Narcissa. Don't think I don't see your hand in this." She turns to the younger woman. "So, I understand you and my granddaughter have become friends. Somewhat shocking to me, I admit. Gyffindor?"

Hermione shrugs elegantly and says, "None of us are perfect, ma'am," and the woman laughs delightedly.

"You have cheek. What a refreshing change." She and Narcissa exchange a conspiratorial look. "Most young women these days are simpering missish idiots. Like that Ginevra girl."

"Harry Potter's wife?" Hermione takes a sip from her glass of sparkling water. "I'm afraid she and I have been estranged since shortly after graduation so I'm not wholly up to date on her exploits. You'll have to fill me in. I promise to act shocked and horrified."

"Mostly gallivanting about in inadequate clothing," the woman snorts. "In my day…"

"In your day, Eustacia, you were caught skinny dipping in the fountains in front of muggles. Forty-five people had to be obliviated." Narcissa raises her eyebrows.

"Well," the woman is utterly unabashed, "I had the legs for it then."

Hermione smothers a laugh and Eustacia Parkinson idly twirls her champagne flute in her hand. "We can't all be political masterminds, my dear, some of us are just party girls." Caught off guard, Hermione jerks back and blinks several times.

"I'm sorry?" she asks. "I don't follow."

"Of course you do," the woman pats her cheek. "We'll be voting for you, of course. Now go reassure that child she's doing well or chat with your friends or something so Narcissa and I can gossip in private."

Hermione murmurs, "It was lovely to meet you," and drifts over to whisper "You look beautiful" in Æthel's ear before joining Draco, who wraps an arm around her waist and says, "You've survived an encounter with the Parkinson Dragon, I see."

The rest of her inner circle have gathered around; they haven't had the chance to socialize in a while and Hermione's surprised by how much she misses the lot of them, by how nice it is to meet without overt plotting. Not, of course, that this little gathering is apolitical. Far from it. Still, it's significantly more fun than going over economic reports.

Theo looks over at Eustacia Parkinson and laughs. "She's a nightmare but if she likes you, you're golden. Did she tell you about the time she did a naked swan dive into a cake at a Ministry party?"

"No!" Hermione breathes out. "I did hear about a skinny-dipping incident"

"Yep." Theo swirls his wine in his glass. "She dove into the cake and, while everyone stared in shock, ran out of the room wearing nothing but the frosting that clung to her. My grandfather remembered it well, reminisced at length; apparently she was what he called 'a looker' in her youth."

"And here I thought," Hermione teases him, "That you pureblood types were all conservative stick-in-the-muds."

"I believe," Blaise says with a light laugh, "that Eustacia Parkinson is the exception that proves the rule."

"Rather," Hermione looks at him sideways, "like Luna?" The man flushes and Greg chokes back a laugh. "How was Russia?"

"Cold," he mutters. "But productive."

"Where is Luna, anyway?" Draco asks and Hermione points. The blonde girl is talking to an elderly man who might be listening to her raptly or might be trying to look down her dress. Hermione suspects it's the latter and nudges Blaise. "Go rescue her before she decides to do a swan dive of her own just to amuse herself." He pales and hurries off to his girlfriend's side while Greg laughs again.

"Never thought I'd see Blaise Zabini so whipped," Pansy says with satisfaction. "Everything we've done would be worth it for no other reason than that."

"Or just for Theo's adoption. How's the girl holding up?" Astoria asks, shifting Alicia from one arm to the other while Pansy makes faces at the baby. "Merlin, the first time my mother made me do the meet and greet on my own I was so scared I almost wet myself."

"She's got this," Theo looks fondly over at his daughter, who's smiling sweetly as the last few guests arrive. "I've kept an eye on her the whole time and we set up a hand signal in case she wanted me to swoop in and save her; she hasn't given it once. Next stage, formal presentation, then dinner and she'll be sent up to bed."

"Compared to a week of etiquette lessons with Narcissa, I suspect this is easy," Hermione reaches out and snags a bite from the passing caterer.

Astoria shudders. "I cannot imagine. The very thought of being cooped up with your mother, Draco, at ten, for a week, makes me want to start drinking. Heavily."

"That would certainly be Ginny's solution," Daphne says archly and the entire group laughs.

Narcissa dings on her glass and everyone turned towards her; she's taken center stage at the head of the room and is ready to begin the formal presentations. "It is," she said, "my great honor and privilege to stand as mother today to not one but two wonderful young people as we welcome their children into our fold. Theodore," she makes a pretense of looking about the room, "would you come up here please."

Theo, Æthel following on his heels, beams at Narcissa as he approaches her. "We all know Theodore Nott and you should have met his lovely new daughter Æthel as you came in. Her adoption has been finalized and I am pleased to introduce her to you tonight."

Æthel bobs a curtsy towards the assembled adults and everyone coos at her. A prettily behaved, beautiful child delights everyone, even the sharks who are already planning to invite her to little children's parties and get closer to the adults by means of the child.

"To the young Lady Nott," a voice calls out from the back of the room and the girl looks charmingly confused as everyone raises their glasses until Theo stage whispers, "That's you, sweetheart," at which point she blushes and curtsies again. She knows, of course, exactly what her title is. A week with Narcissa Malfoy and she can recite the pedigree of every person in the room; she knows who has sons she'll be expected to charm, who has daughters she'll be expected to befriend. She's been told who the sharks are, though she could have figured that out without advance warning. She's also fairly sure 'Aunt Cissa' is one of the toothier sharks in the shiver.

"Now," Narcissa looks around again, "Astoria?" The new mother joins them at the front of the room. "Hermione? Draco?" As the couple begins to wind their way towards her, Narcissa continues, "We all know Astoria's had a difficult year, and I am so pleased that my son and daughter-in-law have offered –"

"Insisted!" Astoria interjects with a laugh.

"- on taking on the role of godparents for little Alicia." A round of polite clapping greets this announcement, and whispers as people lean in towards one another. Astoria's not quite socially the thing right now, even with Malfoy sponsorship, and her own mother is notably not in attendance. Still, no one wants to offend Narcissa at her own party so people offer congratulations as the Malfoy matriarch moves away and Hermione takes the baby.

"She's quite a catch," Eustacia Parkison murmurs to Narcissa, watching Hermione.

Narcissa looks over at Hermione, gently bouncing Alicia in her arms, a white cloth placed over her shoulder. The two women both radiate understated, graceful privilege and Narcissa smiles to think of how quickly Draco has transformed the girl he married from an utter disaster – she's never, ever, going to forget that horrid purse the girl had carried - to this scion of quiet power. "Yes," she responds to the elder Mrs. Parkinson. "She's a dear girl and I'm so pleased Draco found her. The Malfoys – and the Blacks for that matter – have always prided ourselves on being able to spot true gold, even if it's lying in the gutter."

"Which she was." The woman sips from her wine. "It's a pity about Astoria; I take it her own mother still refuses to speak to her?"

"She'll change her tune," Narcissa smiles. "I happen to suspect – "

And then Greg clears his throat and Narcissa catches Hermione's eye. The two women smile at one another; one of their big fears had been that Greg would miss his cue tonight. He's a sweet enough boy, Hermione had said, and Narcissa had completed her thought, but he's a bit thick. When Hermione takes the baby, they'd instructed him, that's when you do it.

"Astoria," the man is saying, blushing fiercely at being the center of attention, "I know this last year has been hard for you, and I've come to respect you immensely, how you've conducted yourself with grace and class no matter what, and more, I've come to," he gulps, "I've come to love you and I was hoping you would do me the honor of…" and then his eloquence, not good at the best of times, fails him and he mutely holds out his hand with a small box on it.

Astoria's eyes widen and she takes the box, opens it and gasps. Don't overdo it, Narcissa thinks to herself. "Greg, I…" the younger woman stammers, "I…this is too much." She waves her hand towards her baby. "I'm…"

"I was hoping," the man ducks his head, "maybe you would let me adopt the baby, raise her as ours, not just yours?"

The entire room of powerful women melts into a sentimental pile of adoration at that and, as Hermione casually walks over to Narcissa, baby in her arms, Greg slides the impressive diamond onto Astoria's hand. The guests swarm and flutter around the young mother, admiring the ring, praising Greg.

"That's just the most romantic thing I've ever seen," the elder Mrs. Parkinson gushes. "You are one very lucky little girl," she coos at Alicia.

"It's more than romantic," Mr. Parkinson, who has come up behind their little group, hands his wife another glass and offers one to Hermione, who shakes her head but thanks him quietly. "It was the right bloody thing to do. That poor girl; it was good of you, Narcissa, to sponsor her like this but what she needs, what she needed, was a husband."

"Greg's a good boy," Narcissa inclines her head towards the older man gracefully. "He knows the importance of taking care of our own."

Mr. Parkison snags a bacon wrapped starter from a passing tray and huffs with importance. "I'm glad, for her sake, he was willing to take her on, even tainted this like. Values, Narcissa. It's what separates us from the riff raff." He glares at Hermione. "Your little Order, missy…"

"Not my Order," she protests and he nods, pleased.

"That little Order, they're a plague, I tell you. Jumped up hooligans, no sense of decency. Seducing and abandoning a girl from a good family. Why, that man ought to be drawn and quartered, I tell you." He chomps down on his starter and Hermione smothers a smile.

"I'm sure Harry feels terrible," is all she murmurs. "But I'm so glad Greg has stepped up."

"He should feel terrible! In my day things like that didn't happen because men behaved with decency and honor." He grabs from another passing tray and admires the behind of the girl carrying it. "Not like today." He pops the treat in his mouth and says, around it, "Men like Greg, men like your Draco, they're what we need."

"And," Narcissa interjects smoothly, "Women like our sweet Hermione. Did you know she's going to run for Minister of Magic?"

"No!" The man wipes his mouth and assesses her. "Planning on parlaying your war work into public service? Good on you." He looks around for another passing tray but, with none in immediate reach, looks back at the woman standing in front of him. "What's your platform?"

"Well, we haven't formally announced anything yet so you have to promise to keep mum," Hermione smiles at the man and he leans forward, pleased to pick up a political secret before the masses; Hermione smugly thinks to herself that he'll repeat this to every power player in the room before desert and every last pureblood will support her no matter what more popular platitudes she mouths for the masses to consume. "We, I, plan to reexamine the post-war asset forfeitures; it's my belief that some over-enthusiastic bureaucrats may have taken more than was appropriate. If that's the case, we'll be returning property to the original owners, of course." Hermione shifts the baby to her other shoulder and Narcissa reaches over to move the spit up cloth as well. "I also think we should look at the composition of the Wizengamot; in recent years the body has expanded beyond it's original make up and I don't feel that's good for wizarding Britain. Keeping a smaller body, made up of representatives from traditional families, will ensure we maintain a connection to our past even as we move into the future with deliberation and caution."

Mr. Parkinson narrows his eyes at the young woman and smiles very slowly. "I think I like you."

"I'm happy to have met with your approval," she smiles back. "Of course, you realize some of these changes will have to be made, well, quietly."

Mr. Parkinson looks back at Narcissa, then across the room at Draco, who's holding court, surrounded by young members of various powerful families. "I don't think I ever offered you appropriate congratulations on your marriage. I see that you and Draco suit one another well and I am pleased to see such a delightful new face in our little circle." He hands his glass to his wife. "If you'll excuse me."

"Not at all," Hermione smiles. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Parkinson."

One of the catering staff walks by and Mrs. Parkinson puts her empty glass down on the tray, takes another, then a second and holds it out to Hermione. "No, I can't." Hermione shakes her head and Mrs. Parkinson raises her eyebrows, exchanges a glance with Narcissa. "Might we…" she trails off.

"It's really too soon to be…" Hermione similarly doesn't finish her thought but all three women smile at one another and Mrs. Parkinson raises her glass in Hermione's direction. "To you, my dear, and to the next generation of leaders. May this year bring you everything you, and we, desire."

. . . . . . . .

**A/**N - I had to look it up; the mass noun for a group of sharks is a shiver. A shiver of sharks. And people said I wouldn't learn anything from fanfiction.

I shall now pimp my silly twitter account: /Colubrina_

Thank you to everyone who took the time to review; you know I adore you the way I adore semi-colons. Chester99, LadiePhoenix007, my name is mommy, Darc-lover, Don't Trust the Silver Eyes, LB123 (twice!), Finderfae, Houseofpercypotter, wintergirlsmith, Honoria Granger, DarkFairy8605, lumoslit (twice!) AnnaxVakarian, Guest, Grovek26, SusanMarieS, pagyn, GTH, rosierocks30, Icelynn, FaeBreeze, Kitty, Analena, Girlinthegreen, DCullen07, Pank98, Dragomir7, Gullb3rg, Midnight Little One, Ramyfan & Emmeebee.


	21. Lots of Small Things & Russia

Blaise pours the blood into the bath and Hermione looks at him, her face scrunched in distaste.

"Are you really sure this is a good idea," she mutters, for the fifth time that hour. "It seems so disgusting."

Blaise and Draco look at the red bath water and both paste cheerful smiles on. "It doesn't seem that bad to me," Draco says.

"Liar." Her sour voice makes him laugh.

"Just get in, soak, be sure to totally immerse yourself, and then rinse off. By the time you're done the stew should be ready." Draco puts a coaxing note into his voice, "Luna brought good bread."

"Oh, goody." Because she has such an appetite right now. Nothing like contemplating soaking in blood to really make a girl hungry.

"And Blaise brought wine..."

"What's the appropriate vintage to serve with sacrificial rabbit, anyway?"

Blaise puts his hand over his heart and signed dramatically. "I'm wounded - utterly wounded - that you think I, blood purist and elitist snob, might bring the wrong wine to a blood magic ritual. It's as if you don't even know me."

"Whatever. It's not like I can have any of it anyway." Hermione stares at the red water. "I assume I don't have to do this in front of an audience, right? That you plan to leave?"

Both men start edging towards the door; she adds, right as Blaise is almost out of the room, "This won't hurt the baby, right?"

"No!" he blurts out. "Trust me, I double and triple checked that once you were..."

"Good. Because if it did -"

"You'd kill me?" He smiles at her.

"Oh no." She smiles back. "If I killed you it would be a mistake."

He blows her a kiss. "My dear, bloodthirsty, terrifying Lady, trust me, your little princling is safe. We all - all - want your dynasty firmly established."

She turns to look back at the bloody water and sighs. "Might as well get this over with," and both men slip away.

. . . . . . . . . .

_~ Dishes and Treats ~_

_The wizarding world is happy to welcome its newest princess; Theodore Nott, last scion of the venerable House of Nott, has adopted young miss Æthel Doe, now Nott, from the rightly maligned Phoenix Orphanage. The crème-de-la-crème of society came to Narcissa Malfoy's town house on Saturday to toast the young Lady Nott. This columnist hopes that Lord Nott won't stop his charitable work at the orphanage now that he's brought his own little girl home; those children need someone to watch out for them and it's clear it's not going to be the Order of the Phoenix, after whom the institution was named and whose members sit prominently on the board._

"Lady Nott?" Harry raises his brows and looks at Ginny for confirmation.

"It's technically her title," the woman responds, drinking her coffee. Drinking what Harry _hopes_ is just coffee. "Nott's mother's dead and she's the only female member of the House. Never seen anyone pretentious enough to dredge up that old custom, though, especially not for a little kid."

"_Lord_ Nott?" Ron asks, in disgust. "Could that rotter _be_ any more vile?"

"Head of a pureblood House," Ginny shrugs and swirls the creamy liquid in her cup. "Again, never seen anyone be enough of a pompous prat to actually _use_ the old title system, not even Malfoy which is saying something, but it isn't inaccurate."

"Does that mean," Harry leans back and looks at Ginny, "I'm Lord Potter?"

Percy shakes his head. "No, sorry; your mother was muggle-born, so, formally, the House of Potter is no more."

"Ah well," Harry reaches awkwardly out to Ginny, who endures his touch but hardly welcomes it. "I guess you don't get to be Lady Potter."

"I'll live," she snorts with obvious disdain. "The whole idea of medieval pureblood titles makes my skin crawl. Who wants to go back to that kind of world?"

"I think," Percy says, "you're all missing the main problem here, which isn't that the gossip columnist is using absurd titles but the nasty little dig at the Order of the Phoenix. We've become the easy target and that's not good."

"Has part two in the series come out yet?" Ron's shoving a piece of toast into his mouth and Percy looks away in disgust.

"Not yet, and I'm going into the office to try to get some damage control done ahead of time."

"How bad is it going to be?" Harry asks.

"That depends on Russia," Percy mutters. At their confused looks he adds, "I'll explain later."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Marcus," Hermione's lounging in her chair, wand at the ready. Theo's brought the man up and he's looking around the bare room with a mixture of disdain and confusion. "I've been told you're asking questions about me."

Marcus Flint seems to be slowly realizing that, despite the lack of overt pomp, he'd best haul out his most formal manners; he lowers himself to his knees, albeit less gracefully than Theo's ever managed, and lays his wand in front of him. Hermione's cold smile warms just a tad as she runs her fingers along her own wand, caressing it. Marcus watches her hand as if mesmerized. "I have heard rumors that a new dark power is rising," he finally murmurs when Theo clears his throat from where he's leaning against the far wall. "I've heard rumors that it's you."

"Fascinating," Hermione looks up at Theo. "Is this your doing?"

"We are," the man replies, "trying to get the masses ready for you, yes. Given that the election is not really in jeopardy I'm moving on a bit."

"Don't worry my pretty little head about it?" she asks and Marcus looks nervous. A spat between his contact and the rising power was probably not something he had expected.

"Lady," Theo rolls his eyes. "You have enough to do being a candidate, plus that thing where you spend most of every morning being miserable. I thought we'd agreed I would work on the longer term project of doing away with the pesky democracy problem."

"True enough. I'm sorry, Theo. I've been irritable lately." she turns her attention back to Marcus. "What do the rumors tell you?"

"That," he stumbles, clearly having a hard time reconciling the scrubby school girl he remembered and had probably still unconsciously expected with the woman in front of him. "That Nimue is back, another lady out of the mists, that she plans to restore pureblood privileges, derail the Order."

"And you believed this?"

"I… I thought it was probably more poetic than actually truthful," he confesses. "But that you might be a…"

"Excellent." Her craving for caramels is overcoming her interest in this conversation. She supposes she'll have to bloody well comb through this man's brain and all but where is Draco with her food? She refocuses. "How good, Mr. Flint, are you at violence?"

He looks up, confused. Gods. The way these people seem to think she'll just wave her wand and go from Minister to Queen with no objections is kind of ridiculous. Even a shiny, new tyranny, coming in to replace the broken democracy that exploited orphans and starved the poor, is going to have _some_ detractors.

She plans to have those detractors killed, of course, or at least enough of them to send a message, but she's under no illusion that they won't exist.

"You see, I suspect we will need a bit of an army to enforce the transition from Minister to Queen, well, Regent if we want to be technical about where we're going. Theo will ensure that most people actually _want_ to get rid of all those pesky, corruptible elected offices but there are always people who need more - vigorous, shall we say? - convincing. Or people against whose attacks I'll need defending. I foresee anyone who needs vigorous convincing will be moved to attack and we'll have to defend ourselves. It will, of course, be terribly sad. I'm sure I'll sniffle a bit at public events while promising to keep everyone safe from the wretched remnants of the Order, driven to violence at the end."

Theo is trying not to laugh while respect slowly blossoms in Marcus Flint's eyes. Flint had, despite his hints, not been fully convinced Hermione was anything other than some figurehead Draco and Theo were manipulating. Of course, that misconception suits Theo; he wants to keep anyone against them confused and focusing attention on the inner circle rather than the queen. He, Draco – even Blaise – can take anyone. Hermione's a tad distracted by the near constant nausea and her inexplicable recent obsession with caramels. And, of course, she's the only one of them truly crucial to the final plans.

"You want me," Flint breathes, "to put together an army for you?"

"Knights of the Lady, maybe?" Theo asks, eyebrows raised. "Perhaps they could start as a service organization?"

"Oh, I like that, Theo," she smiles across the room at him. "Your ideas are always good."

"I live to serve," he murmurs.

"He does, too," she looks back at Marcus, suddenly serious. "I expect loyalty to be absolute, upon quite literal pain of death. A slow death."

"I would expect nothing less."

"Before we begin…" she starts the tedious explanation of the legilimancy and the man in front of her nods, eyes shining. She looks up at Theo who mouths 'well done' at her. Another convert, another soul committed to putting a woman he'd despised as filthy and beneath him on a throne of absolute power.

Sometimes she likes the irony of that even more than the power she can already almost taste.

It tastes a bit like caramel. Salted caramel.

Where the fuck is Draco with her food?

. . . . . . . . . .

Percy Weasley looks up at his boss, at a man he's respected for years. "They seized _all_ of it?" he mumbles, horrified. "It's all gone?"

Shacklebolt nods, grimly.

"What do we do?" Percy asks, hopelessly?

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione frowns at Theo and Æthel when they come in. "I love your daughter, but I'm not sure a strategy meeting is the best place for a child." Much of the inner circle sprawls about the main room of Hermione's old flat and she has an actual chalkboard propped against the wall where she's sketched out the assorted money issues they plan to exploit. A large bowl of candy sits in the middle of the floor and Æthel spots it at once.

"I know," Theo rakes his hand through his hair, "but Pansy was supposed to watch her and now she can't. You either get both of us or neither."

"You need a nanny," Hermione snorts, "Not Pansy."

"I'll be quiet," Ethel promises.

"It's not that, love," Hermione smiles at the child. "It's that..."

"And I won't repeat ANYTHING." The girl looks up at her, her blue eyes pleading to be allowed to stay.

"Oh, let her listen," Draco sighs. "She might as well grow up learning this stuff; she's going to live her whole life in a political snake-pit."

"It's true," Luna's got knitting out and is staring with a frown at her pattern. "She's the heir to one of the last noble houses and the niece of the future queen. She's valuable. Oh, perl _four_."

"How's Harry?" Blaise drawls, running his fingers through her hair.

Luna shrugs. "Worried. I don't know why, though."

"Umm, because he doesn't want Hermione to take over the world." Theo raises his brows.

"It's a waste of energy to worry about things you cannot change." She starts ripping out stitches and leans closer to her pattern. "Did you know the Prophet has started a series on great women in our history? Last week it was Boudicca."

"Random," mutters Draco.

"If I've learned one thing, mate, it's that she's never random." Blaise pulls the paper off the floor and flips through it. "Let me guess, this week it's Nimue?"

"Next week," Luna hands her ball of yarn to Æthel. "This week it's her."

"Æthel?" Theo stares at the woman. He's still not wholly sold on the idea of Luna.

"Æthelflæd."

"Hey," the girl squeals, "she has my name." Blaise hands over the paper to the little girl who admires a drawing of a fierce looking woman holding a scepter and sitting on a throne. "Lady of the Mercians," she reads.

"Tell me about her," Hermione smiles; Daphne's plan to dominate every media she can with Nimue stories appears to be working.

The girl skims the article and then says, "She ruled for 8 years, from 911, and not just as a figurehead either. She led the soldiers and built thirteen fortresses."

"Not a bad namesake," Theo ruffles the girl's hair. "Now hush and let us strategize, princess. We need to make sure your aunt gets elected."

"I hate to suggest using the girl," Blaise interjects, "but I suspect if she 'carelessly revealed' something to Potter on an ice cream date with Luna he'd take it as absolute gospel."

"Because children never lie?" Hermione looks doubtful. "He knows perfectly well we lied all the time at that age."

"It's worth trying," Blaise shrugs. "And can I say how much I love the endless revelations about how you were not the goody-two-shoes in school that we all thought you were."

Ethel squirms with eagerness, looking from face to face.

"Do you think she could handle it?" Hermione is still frowning at the idea, and she tosses a dirty look in Blaise's direction, but Theo laughs.

"Any child who can do a meet and greet without a single mishap at Narcissa Malfoy's party can manage to skillfully drop misinformation over ice cream. The blush when she 'realized' she was Lady Nott was especially brilliant."

"You're so invested in how sneaky she is. What will you do," Hermione laughs back at him, "if she gets sorted into Hufflepuff after all?"

"Laugh my arse off and wait for her to take over the whole lot of them."

"Well, sweetling," Hermione looks at the girl. "If we can come up with something for you to let slip do you think you can accidentally drop false information to my old friend?"

The girl nods, her eyes wide.

"Theo, is that okay with you? I don't want to..."

"My life is yours, Lady." He's very serious for a moment, then he grins. "And, ice cream with Luna and a little spilled misinformation is a good start down the path of a life of political manipulation. It's not exactly like you're asking her to take the Dark Mark."

"Luna?"

"I like ice cream."

"OK, so now that we've decided to exploit the innocence of children, can we move on to how we plan to explicate the complex economics and, more importantly, how we plan to make the Russia incident highlight the weakness of the entire current political system? Theo," she turns to him, "I want to keep Percy's name out of it for a little while."

"Why?"

She smiles. "What's the penalty for embezzlement?"

"Prison," he shrugs. "And your point?"

"What do you think Percy Weasley would do to keep himself out of prison?"

Blaise grabs a caramel from the candy bowl then, looking at Hermione slowly puts it back and takes a chocolate instead. "Just about anything."

"I think," she looks at Blaise, "I want him to endorse me."

"You want Ron's brother to endorse you?" Draco asks, then, when she nods, he laughs. "You are really evil with the way you like to twist the knife, you know that?"

"I thought that was what you liked about me."

. . . . . . . . . . .

_~ Hermione Granger Resigns From Ministry in Protest over Phoenix Orphanage ~_

_War heroine Hermione Granger-Malfoy resigned from the Ministry of Magic today in protest over conditions at the Order of the Phoenix Memorial Orphanage._

_She cited government funding improprieties resulting in sub-standard conditions for the institution's residents as the main reason for her departure._

_The resignation is notable not only because Ms. Granger-Malfoy is a former member of the Order that founded the orphanage but because she had a long-standing personal relationship with the family most connected to the management of the facility, the Weasleys._

_Arthur Weasley runs the Muggle Artifact Registration Office at the Ministry of Magic and his wife, Molly Weasley, is the head of the board of the orphanage in question. Recent accusations have emerged that the couple embezzled money from the orphanage budget. Their youngest son, well-known playboy Ronald Weasley, has been recently quoted that the conditions at the orphanage are 'character building'._

_Political pundits agree that this resignation opens the way for Ms. Granger-Malfoy to declare her own candidacy for Minister of Magic. She is widely considered a shoo-in should she decide to run, especially in the wake of this current scandals that likely remove both Percy Weasley, the current Deputy Minister, and Harry Potter from contention._

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N **__- Thank you so much, everyone, for all the support you've sent me for this fic. I admit I can't quite believe this political dystopia is interesting to people, especially when I have to keep a cheat sheet for myself to keep all the threads straight._

_As the Order becomes more aware of Hermione's machinations they will spawn more of a full fledged antagonist. Said antagonist needs a tragedy to happen to really motivate him/her to full on conflict and I'm still building to that tragedy, but it is coming. I do encourage guessing as to who that might be…_

_Much love to everyone who reviewed since I last posted. Thank you all SO much. hosiakari7 (author of a wonderful fic, You Again, herself that I'm really enjoying), Ramyfan (multiple times!), Analena, DCullen07, Pank98, LadiePhoenix007, Honoria Granger, lumoslit, Icelynn, Ace Clover, SusanMarieS, sparklefreeze, GTH, AnnaxVakarian, FaeBreeze, SimiDemon1994, my name is mommy, ladymagma1100, Lolo and the Dragons, Sora Loves Rain (multiple times), Girlinthegreen, pagyn, Guest, Kitty, Lisa, rosierocks30, ryggrad, Nicxy, Chester99, xXMiss Alec VolturiXx, Darc-lover, dracosgirl007, Mady, Dehstehra, Grovek26, DarkFairy8605, LB123, Don't Trust the Silver Eyes, dcyr, and my partner-in-crime, dulce de leche go. _

_If you're feeling like this just isn't enough dystopia, that you want an even darker world, let me nudge you towards A Bodyguard of Lies which I am writing with said crime partner, dulce de leche go. _


	22. Chapter 22 - Running for Minister

_Hermione Granger-Malfoy to Seek Minister of Magic Position_

_Hermione Granger-Malfoy formally became a candidate for Minister of Magic today, announcing this morning that she would seek to be elected to the position._

_Granger-Malfoy, recently wed to Draco Malfoy, heir of the House of Malfoy, is considered a leading candidate for the position despite limited experience in government. Polls of key families indicate she is widely supported by the pureblood elite and the elder Lord Parkinson, in a statement released almost immediately after the announcement, called Malfoy-Granger, "an excellent young leader whom I greatly respect; I welcome her in the work of getting the country back on track."_

_Granger-Malfoy said she would hold "barroom chats" to discuss the "bold but practical changes we need to overcome years of Order of the Phoenix administration failures."_

_"Only a new Minister can renew the promise of wizarding Britain — the idea that if you work hard and play by the rules you can count on the security that you need to raise your family. These are our basic values that are under attack from the current administration every day," Granger-Malfoy said. _

_The announcement was the latest step in Granger-Malfoy's remarkable political and personal journey — from muggle-born witch to war heroine to young Lady Malfoy to front-runner for Minister of Magic. With the election only four short months away no one expects any other viable candidatse to challenge Granger-Malfoy's run and most assume the Wizengamot will ratify the popular vote with no hesitation._

. . . . . . . .

Ron flips through the morning paper, looking, now, more for information about whatever Hermione is up to than for pictures of himself in the society pages. The announcement she's running for Minister, well, that he was expecting. He's not especially bothered by that; she'll never win. He's not sure what to base that opinion on other than the sheer ludicrousness of a muggle-born as Minister of Magic but it's his opinion and he therefore holds it strongly.

He figures all she really wanted to do was hurt Harry, to get after the man essentially chose his mate over her. In the divorce, as he thinks about it, he got Harry. She was a fool if she'd thought it would have been any other way. Harry was married to his sister, Molly thought of him as a son. Harry would never have walked away from _family_ for anyone.

Not even for Hermione.

Ron smiles to himself as he flips another page. No fawning articles praising that wanker, Nott, for adopting some kid because he couldn't get himself an heir any other way. No articles spelling out whatever it is about Russia that's got Percy's knickers in a twist. Looks like a good day, other than the exercise in futility that is Hermione's announcement she's running for Minister.

Then he sees the limerick. Down in the corner of one page, a box around it, underlined, in capital letters, was a limerick.

_A Phoenix once came to Pawtucket  
Their wealth could be held in a bucket  
Though they claimed revolution  
Over time their solution  
Was to steal other's wealth and say fuck it._

He sees it torn out of the paper tacked to the wall at the bar later. He sees it chalked on a wall. He hears it when he's walking.

He blames Hermione that the Order – that _he – _has become a laughingstock.

He's not sure how, but he knows this has to be her fault.

. . . . . . . . . .

Running for Minister, as Theo has pointed out, doesn't mean the end of Hermione's volunteer work. Being publicly charitable is, if anything, more important. Therefore, pregnant and queasy or not, she spends every Saturday reading stories and reassuring children that their turn will come, that Æthel's adoption is not a fluke, that some day they'll have parents.

She has every intention of making that a priority when she's elected. She's quite sure Narcissa will help. It'll be a dry run of the changeling project; if people can open their hearts to pureblood orphans it'll be that much easier to convince them to take in kidnapped muggle-born babies.

For now, though, she reads. Even with only part one of the exposé published, private donations have been pouring in. Toys, books, clothes. The place may still be a cinder-block prison but at least now it's a cinder-block prison with more resources. Hermione's got her head down reading, "However many years she lived, Mary always felt that she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow" when she hears a familiar voice.

"Hermione?"

And there, in the doorway, Hannah Abbott – no, Longbottom now – tucked against his side stands… "Neville!" she drops the book and runs across the room to hug him, to hug them both.

"But what are you doing here?" she asks, pulling them down to the table where she's been sitting with the children, "I thought you both lived up north! What brings you to London?"

"This," Hannah waves her hand around, trying not to look to closely at Hermione's waistline. How is it wherever she goes everyone is pregnant? "I, after the war, after that year with the Carrows…" she's stammering and Hermione looks at Neville.

"Too many curses," he says. "That's what we think."

"I keep… I can't…," Hannah's trying to continue.

"We didn't even realize this place existed until the article in the _Prophet_," Neville continues. "I thought maybe… not to say a child is something you can just pick out, like a hat or…"

"I really want a child," Hannah finishes, quietly.

"This place doesn't even have a _garden_," Neville adds. "It's all just packed dirt. How can people expect children to grow when they're surrounded by walls?"

Hermione looks at Hannah, who's trying not to cry. "You're…," she trails off. "Those monsters did this to you?"

The woman nods and then smiles, a smile that shakes a little bit, that carries maybe a little too much knowledge in it, but still a smile. "So… here we are." She looks at Hermione, "Are you…?"

"Yes, but really just barely. How can you...?"

"I think I've lost so many that it's like a sixth sense now. When?"

"About 2 months after the election."

"Wow – you'll be so busy!"

"And tired!" Hermione laughs. "But at least the nausea seems to be going away. I hope. I keep telling myself, anyway. It didn't for Astoria, not the whole time. It's not fair to want caramels _all the time_ and still feel sick."

Neville shoves his hands in his pockets. "I didn't realize you and Astoria were such good friends."

Hermione crosses her arms and looks at him, eyes narrowed. "School's been over for a while and I don't see why I can't be friends with people from different houses."

"It's not that," he protests, "It's… the whole thing with Harry."

Hermione snorts at that; that she's supposed to be so loyal to Harry when he certainly wasn't to her is an ongoing irritation. "I don't think anyone drugged Harry to get him into her bed, and she certainly wasn't the first. She's just the only one who decided she'd rather keep the baby. She was stupid, sure, bedding him with his reputation, but Harry walked away from me a long time ago so it'd be a bit ridiculous to say, 'oh, well, Tory, sorry you got pregnant and your own mother won't speak to you but I can't be your friend now because of who the father is'."

"Of course not, of course you wouldn't do that," Hannah looks at the children, who've scattered now that Hermione is talking to adults instead of reading, and then, realizing what Hermione had said, whispers, "He talked people into giving up their babies?"

"If by 'giving up' you mean terminating the pregnancies, then, yes." Hermione says bluntly. "At least two others that I know about. Ginny could probably tell you more but she's not talking to me, hasn't for years. Not since Ron and I split."

"I… Merlin, Hermione. I really had no idea," Neville's grimacing. "I knew you and Ron had broken it off – hard to miss that what with the coverage of his exploits and all – but I didn't realize Ginny - Harry too? - had abandoned you too." He pulls her into another hug. "If I'd known, I would have been down here – Hannah and I both would have - demanding they cut it out."

"It's okay," Hermione shrugs even as she finds herself warmed by his immediate partisanship. "It's over, has been for a while, and I can't even pretend to be sad anymore. People change, people move on. Draco, his friends. Theo, Theo's daughter. I have a whole new family with all of them and I know it's a little weird when you think about how we all were in school but it's been really great." She flaps her hands a little and almost squeals, turning to Hannah. "Did you know Luna is dating _Blaise Zabini?"_

"No!" Hannah gasps, then asks, "Is it serious?"

"I think it might be, at least for him" Hermione smirks. "She's got him totally wrapped around her finger. You'll have to come over, if you're in town long enough, have dinner. I'll have them over, have Theo over. You can ask Theo about the mechanics of his adoption; I know Blaise did something at the Ministry to fast track his application. Probably something illegal, but – "

"The whole Ministry is corrupt," Neville snorts. "I think I can live with a little underhanded moving of our application to the top of the pile given all the other things they're up to."

"Hermione," Hannah puts her hand on the other woman's arm, "That's so nice of you. Do you think he'd…"

"Of course he would," Hermione hugs the other woman, unwontedly angry that she has to endure a lifetime of fallout from the war – from the worthless, inept terrorists who'd bungled everything they touched - but not planning to be totally upfront that Blaise Zabini would walk in front of an oncoming train if his Lady told him to.

"Hermione," Neville, looking at the two women, seems to have made some kind of decision. "I think you should be wary of Ron. He seems really angry at you, a lot more than seems reasonable. He blames you for the most random things, things you can't possibly have anything to do with."

Hermione laughs. "Ron? Really? Neville, you're sweet but what would anyone have to worry about from Ron? I know he's bitter I moved on, and with a man he hates, but the only person he's a risk to is whatever unfortunate socialite he's currently wooing."

. . . . . . . . . .

Harry spots Luna by means of her hat, which she's somehow attached to her head upside down. A feather that he assumes was meant to poke into the air thrusts down over one ear and she has a blond girl by the hand.

Harry recognizes the girl, mostly from the society photo spread of Narcissa Malfoy's party but also from the orphanage exposé. Theo's daughter. Lady Nott. Just fabulous, Luna has brought bloody Lady Nott to their ice cream outing. Apparently, she and Theodore Nott are now friends, close enough friends that he'll trust the airheaded blonde with his brand new, shiny heir.

He sighs. Well, he supposes it'll take more than one outing to get the woman to tell him anything useful anyway.

"Harry," she calls out and he crosses the cobblestone street to join the pair of them. "This is my friend Æthel."

"It's nice to meet you Æthel," he holds his hand out and for a moment he sees something flash in her eyes that almost looks like contempt, and then that look's gone and the little girl giggles and takes his hand.

"Auntie Luna promised me ice cream," she says, thrusting her hand back into Luna's. "I really like ice cream. We didn't get it at the orphanage and I was always ill anyway, but I used to pretend I had treats."

"I think we can manage that," Harry grins at her babbling, finding himself charmed by the girl. He remembers the part of his life when ice cream was an unattainable treat. "The ice cream, I mean."

"It's wonderful," she gushes on as Harry offers Luna his arm and they all make their way to a small table outside the shop. "My favorite is chocolate chip cookie dough; there's actual cookie dough in the ice cream. It's like two desserts at once!"

"How have you been," Harry's asking Luna under the girl's monologue, which continues on with a detailed comparison of different flavors of ice cream.

"Good," the woman replies. "Busy, of course. I'm helping Hermione with her campaign. You knew she was running, right?"

Harry smiles, a tight expression that takes some work. "Yes, I'd seen that."

"It's really Draco's idea, of course," Luna says, waving over a waitress. "What do you want Æthel?"

The child orders some sugary disaster; it occurs to Harry that he probably has far more in common with the child than her own adoptive father; both orphans, both denied treats. At least Æthel will be a little more prepared for Hogwarts than he was. At least she'll have someone to sign permission slips, someone to send her letters. He admits to himself that, as much as he finds Theo Nott an unpleasant reminder of unpleasant days spent battling the man's father and his cohorts, he's done a good thing by this girl. Better to grow up with a father, even Nott, than without one.

"Is Hermione all right?" Harry asks after the waitress leaves. "I'm worried about her, marrying into that snakepit."

"She's been sick a lot lately," Æthel interrupts them. "Lord Nott says..."

"You call him Lord Nott?" Harry's surprised by that. It seems so formal and unpleasant.

"Of course," the little girl replies, looking confused. "What else would I call him?"

Harry shakes his head and Luna adds, "Theo and Draco are pushing her pretty hard right now, with the whole candidacy. On top of the pregnancy it might be too much."

"So," Harry takes the cone the waitress has handed him and looks, amused, at the giant sundae the girl is digging into. "She's not the driving force here?" He hadn't even realized she was pregnant. He's sad at how much they've drifted apart.

"Lord Nott says Auntie 'Mione is a pawn but I'll be a queen," Æthel digs her spoon into the whipped cream and shoves a giant mound into her mouth.

"Silly," Luna says, stealing a cherry from the girl's sundae. "You're already a queen."

Harry steers the conversation to less fraught topics and they reminisce about school, Luna talks about her writing, he talks about shows he's gone to see and Ron's newest conquest, a woman who speaks almost no English. After he leaves and Æthel pushes licks her spoon the little girl says to Luna, "You aren't supposed to shake children's hands."

Luna laughs, "I suspect you know more about the finer points of pureblood etiquette than either Harry or I."

Æthel tucks her hand into her Auntie Luna's as they leave. "Aunt Cissa was very insistent. And, well, Daddy says no one's ever charmed by rudeness."

"Lord Nott, you mean?" Luna asks, archly, and the girl giggles and ducks her head. She'd added that touch on her own.

. . . . . . . . . .

Daphne waits for Ginny to be outside the ice cream shop to make her move. Drunk, and at two in the afternoon. It's sad, really. Daphne smirks to herself, then arranges her features into a cheerful blank smile before she makes eye contact with the little red-headed blood traitor. "Ginny!" she approaches the other woman and grabs her hand. "I just wanted to say I'm so sorry. This is just so awkward"

She's been careful to pitch her tone so no one could hear her but the other woman. She doesn't even get to go into _why _meeting up with her is awkward which is a bit of a shame, really. She'd had an entire apology planned out, one which would let her bring up Harry's infidelity over and over again. It had taken her a long time to script it out and now, now that Ginny has already started screeching incoherently at her, she's unlikely to ever get to use it.

No one appreciates my art, Daphne thinks to herself.

Still, she also prides herself on her improvisation skills so she adapts. "Are you okay?" The woman shoves at her but, her coordination somewhat impaired by her inebriated state, falls to the ground herself. "Someone help me," Daphne yells out, looking around with feigned helplessness. "I think she's having a seizure!" She kneels down by the other woman and adds, "Don't worry! We'll take care of you!"

Ginny lets loose a stream of invective that probably includes a lot of fairly choice phrases. Unfortunately her articulation is not especially good and it's not clear what she's saying.

"I…" Daphne gets up and fades back into the growing crowd. "I don't know what to do for her. Someone help her!"

"She's drunk," a bystander snorts. "She's not sick."

"Disgusting," a woman mutters. "At this time of day."

"What do you expect?" a third adds. "It's not like those Order people have anything useful to do. They just screw around and drink while decent, hardworking people don't even have jobs half the time."

. . . . . . . . . .

"You're a fool," Hermione doesn't even raise her voice, just calmly spoons some sugar into her tea and begins to quietly stir it. "What do you think you're going to do, Percy? Tell people not to vote for the war heroine because your little brother is bitter over their romantic break up? I wouldn't recommend that tactic, especially since I can submit memories of him hitting me."

Percy stiffens across the table.

"Oh, he neglected to mention that, did he?" Hermione smiles at the man. "Ron's a bit more emotional than truthful; you know that. More, however, to my immediate interest, is that you've been embezzling money. You, personally, Percy. Your fingerprints, your _name_ is all over the incriminating documents. And that little investment in Russia? Tsk." She waves her hand and summons a waitress. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?" He doesn't respond. "Get the man a tea and a scone, please. A scone for me as well, if it's not too much trouble."

"My honor, Lady," the woman bobs a tiny curtsey before walking away and Hermione looks back at Percy, who's watched the little scene in horror.

"Lady," he whispers, "You aren't going for Minister at all."

"Of course I am," she shakes her head. "I've formally announced my candidacy, after all, and, heavens, I'm practically running unopposed. The Order has clearly become nothing but opportunists, seduced by the sirens of fame and wealth. The economic travails of the common people combined with the moral scandals anyone who could possibly stop me mean I'll be elected easily. Don't be silly." She raises her tea cup and, taking a small sip, smiles at him over the rim.

"Why are you telling me all this?" He picks up the tea the waitress has slipped in front of him – never has he had service this quick and he's quite sure it's not because he's the Deputy Minister.

"I knew you were the smart brother," Hermione dimples at him and, even knowing what he's figured out, he finds himself warmed by that praise. He finds himself wanting to please her, wanting to charm her. He's not even sure why, she's just mesmerizing; he wonders why Ron ever let this woman go. "I can choose," she's saying, "to quietly bury all the paperwork that ties you to the unfortunate Russia incident."

Percy sips from his cup, his hand shaking at the thought of his name all over that paperwork; all those memos. How could he have been so stupid? If he's tried for embezzlement, he'll be found guilty. She's asking him…

"All you have to do is support me."

He looks at her, trapped. "But," he stumbles over the words, "You already said you're unstoppable. No one can realistically beat you. You don't need me. Why…"

"Oh Percy," she frowns at him, and the sun goes behind the clouds. Why is this woman, this woman who's very civilly threatening him, so compelling? Why does he want so badly to please her? "You can do better than that." She turns and takes the plates with the scones from the waitress, smiling at the girl. She slides his across the table before adding, "Tell me why I want your support."

"I'm…I'm the only Weasley of our generation who's not been in the papers as a playboy or trouble maker." He stumbles to articulate why she wants him as hers. "Well, me and Charlie but he's not around and I'm the… I'm the politician. If you protect me I'll remain the one unsullied member of one of the few remaining pureblood families. If I throw my support behind you publicly," he pauses and finally puts it all together, "If I support you it will be that much easier to be... whatever it is you are going for after the election. Lady." He whispers the last word. Nimue. Rumors that have stilled when he, pragmatic, unromantic Percy Weasley, has walked into rooms suddenly take on new import.

"Well done," she smiles again and he shivers as how pleased he is to have earned another smile. "Do we have a deal?"

"What do you want me to do," he looks at her, this woman who his brother apparently abused, who is playing a game so much deeper than he'd feared, this woman who just bought his soul with, he tells himself, her simple blackmail. He certainly didn't hand it over just to make her happy. "Try to stop Harry and Ron?"

"Oh, let them play," she waves a hand. "No, I want your absolute fidelity, of course, and I will reward it, you know, and not just by keeping you out of prison. Declare yourself for me, publicly, and repudiate the Order and we'll move on from there. I plan to simplify the Wizengamot in time, return it to more of an ancestral House of Lords. The Weasley family is old and pure and it wouldn't do to deny them a seat. Perhaps you'd be a good candidate for that?" She raises an eyebrow and he shudders at the carrot she's offering him. Betray your family, she's saying, and I'll keep you out of prison, give you power and prestige. "Well, think about it." She sips from her tea again. "When you announce your support I'll know you've accepted the arrangement."

He nods. She has him and she knows it. There's no point in pretending he won't do exactly as she's asked; he's always turned towards power and away from his kin and maybe, maybe if he takes her up on this he'll be able to protect them somewhat in the world she's going to build with him or without him. Maybe. Maybe she'll smile at him again. "May I go," he asks, "the office and its eternal paperwork calls."

"Of course," she rises from her seat, he follows and, when she holds out her hand, he bows over it. As he walks away she sinks back into her seat and takes another sip from her tea.

"He agreed, I take it?" Draco slips into Percy's vacated seat.

"Of course he did," she grins at her partner. "Was there any risk at all?"

"The bit where he asked your permission to leave was a nice touch." Draco sips Percy's tea and grimaces at the amount of sugar the man had added.

"He's a bit more attuned to power than the rest of his family."

"He'll suit, then?"

"Oh yes," Hermione sighs with pleasure, "he's barely even wriggling on the line and watching the rest of them as they realize his betrayal will be a sweet, sweet entertainment. The game is too dull right now. All the pieces are in place and there's really nothing to do until after the actual election."

"Well," Draco slides his foot under the café table to touch hers. "It wouldn't do for you to be bored. Now that you feel better perhaps I can keep you entertained?"

She stands and he quickly rises to take her hand. "Take me home," she murmurs, "and we can discuss in more intimate detail how you plan to alleviate my boredom."

. . . . . . . . .

"I've missed you," he murmurs as she joins him on their bed, the slightly increasing curve of her abdomen highlighted by the light hitting the black silk of her little slip of a nothing.

"Mmm," she slips her hand into his, sits up against his side. "Tell me."

He laughs and tugs her until she's straddling him, grinding into him in some really lovely ways. "Your little coup has kept you – has kept both of us – so busy I haven't had a chance to just adore you lately. I miss it. Who'd have thought I'd ever miss your company, even when we started this little adventure."

"I miss you too," she confesses, drawing little circles on his chest with her fingers. "Almost everyone else has to be manipulated and played in some way. It's exhausting; you're the only one I really trust."

He savors that, but, "Not even Theo?" he asks.

"Well," she shrugs, "Theo, yes. But it's not the same."

He wants to ask why, to push her to express her affection; ever since the night, months and months ago, that she'd just cracked open his brain and laid his own feelings out in front of her like a banquet he'd wanted – waited for – her to tell him she felt the same way. He's afraid, though, of what she'll say if he pushes her, that it won't be what he wants to hear, so he settles for 'I miss you' and 'I trust you' and holds onto those tightly.

She's studying him now, even as she starts to undo his buttons. "You know I adore you too, right?"

"Am I still your favorite tool?" he traces his fingers across her belly, feeling the subtle swell of his child growing there.

"I don't think so," she quirks her lips up in a smile as he looks at her, momentarily stricken. "Partner, maybe." She pauses, "Draco – "

He looks up at her, takes her hand and starts to kiss each finger until she leans down and whispers into his ear something he'd simply given up on hearing and he wraps his arms around her and flips her over so she's beneath him. "Really?" he asks, "really and truly?"

"Always and forever," she whispers.

"Why?" he asks, staring at her, begging for confirmation.

She reaches up and draws her hand across the sharp angles of his face, brushes her fingers through the hair that's handing down into his eyes, that veils his view of her. "I just do," she says softly. "I woke up one day and looked at you and realized I didn't care, anymore, what had happened when we were children. That you had become essential and more - precious, wonderful. That I was happy you were the father of this baby, and not just because of power and dynasties and blood but because it was you. You said to me, once, you wanted to be more guile; are you so disbelieving that you are?"

"I just never thought that you would – "

"I do," she pushes herself up and brushes her lips across his. "Why don't you let me show you how very much I do?"

"We won't hurt the baby, right?" Even as he asks he's slipping his hand under the fabric and listening to the quick, gasping, mewling sounds she makes in response to his touch.

"No." It's a quick reassurance between the whimpers he's already wringing from her and he stops long enough to say, very seriously, "Because if anyone hurt the baby I'd kill them."

"No," Hermione corrects him. "We'd keep them alive for years until they didn't even have enough hope left to beg for death."

Draco groans against her and starts to pull off his own clothes. "Fierce, evil woman. How is it you ever fought for the light?"

"Because the last time the dark side wanted to kill me?"

"Can't," he mutters as he tosses his shirt to the floor, "fault your logic on that one." When he's stripped down and is leaning, his weight on his knees and hands as he hovers over her, she says it again and he looks at her and whispers, the words caught in his throat, "And I you."

"I know," she says, "I know."

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N**__ – I am changing the rating of the fic to M, more for violence than anything else. Oddly enough, if you overthrow a duly elected government sometimes there is rioting and violence and death. Some things may be particularly awful and __**I do not plan to do specific trigger warnings**__. (I do not do non-con. Not ever. Even in Bodyguard of Lies, where Theo's relationship is beyond creepy, we've been careful to make sure it's consensual. Violence, yes. Death, yes. Rape, no.)  
_

_Much of Hermione's quoted speech in the paper was adapted from Hilary Clinton's 2008 run for US President. In the orphanage Hermione is reading from The Secret Garden._

_The limerick is courtesy of Terrence Rogue, whose fics you HAVE TO READ. I'm not kidding. They're both listed on my favorites stories list. I slightly changed what he wrote for scansion, so any problems are, of course, my fault._

_Many, many, many thanks to all the lovely people who took the time to review: Delancey654, GTH, LB123, SusanMarieS, LadiePhoenix007, pagyn, alettadipollo, Darc-lover, Relent1ess, Chester99, Amy, Analena, chibi moon baby, lakelady8425,ryggrad, I'mImmortal, hoshiakari7, Icelynne, Honoria Granger, rosierocks30, Guest, Kitty, MismatchedSocksandKnickers, Grovek26, DarkFairy8605, xXMiss Alec VolturiXx, Guest, FaeBreeze, Ramyfan, everything is black and white, Guest, pianomouse, Pank98, AnnaxVakarian._

_And, of course, I really must insist you go read 'A Bodyguard of Lies', which I'm writing with dulce de leche go, because it's so deliciously, awfully evil. Who knew writing a sadistic terror of a character would be so much fun. There just might be something wrong with me but I won't tell if you don't._


	23. Chapter 23 - Everyone Wants Things

Astoria bites her lip as she tries to get the baby to latch on. Her perfect, pureblood grooming has gone the way of sleepless nights; she's pulled her hair back into a sloppy ponytail and there's some kind of stain on her shoulder. "Honestly," she mutters, "I know you're hungry, just eat already."

"Can I help at all," Hermione looks on with no idea at all what to do. She makes a mental note to hire a nanny. An experienced nanny.

"No, the little terror's just being stubborn She likes the other side better but, Merlin, I'm rock hard and if she doesn't drink from this one I'm going to have to pump." Astoria does something that seems to involve shoving her breast into her baby's face and wiggling and then, suddenly, Alicia makes what sounds like a happy gulp and settles in to nurse. "Look, I wanted to ask you, and you can feel free to say no, but - " she wipes her free hand over her face before tucking it back under Alicia. "Would you be a bridesmaid? Greg and I set a date – well, Draco set a date as apparently our wedding is part of his grand propaganda plan – and it's about two months before the election and I know you'll be showing by then and maybe you don't want – "

"I'd love to," Hermione hands a glass of water to Astoria. She remembers from reading her baby books that nursing mothers should be offered water. "I'm honored, really."

. . . . . . . . .

"How straightforward taking over the world is when you have trust in your team," Hermione raises her glass to the assembled group.

They've all gathered in her old flat; the almost total lack of furniture makes it perfect for parties and the official start of her campaign is an excellent reason to have such. Unlike the political ordeal that Narcissa's gathering had been, this was limited to people in her inner circle and it's already starting to degenerate into a bacchanal. Marcus Flint, newly joined, seems out of place, not sure how to behave. Luna leans up against the wall, a half done knitted scarf at her feet; Blaise's hands are on either side of her head and he appears busy exploring her mouth in some detail. Greg hovers around Astoria; with the baby left at Narcissa's in the care of the Malfoy matriarch – or more likely her staff – it's the first time they've been out as a couple without parenting duties weighing them down.

Pansy, holding a glass of champagne that is clearly not her first, toasts Hermione back. "How wonderful working for someone who believes in duty, fealty and kin, someone who is true to her kind."

"Our kind," Theo murmurs. "Our kin." He's pulled a bowl of snacks next to him and is sitting against the wall rolling another joint.

"Our kind," Pansy agrees, taking another drink. "The only kind that matters."

Draco nuzzles Hermione. "It's a bad night to be confined to sparkling water, isn't it?"

"It really is," she mutters, settling down into her big armchair. Draco settles on the floor at her feet and she starts to idly run her fingers through his hair, twining the platinum strands around and around. He leans against her, looking like nothing so much as a beloved pet. You'd never know to watch them how viciously he protects her interests, how active he is behind the scenes of their little revolution, recruiting lower level supporters, tracking her popularity.

She's become very, very popular indeed. His plans to hold her up as the single virtuous member of the Order have been successful; her resignation from the Ministry in outrage over the orphanage scandal, running in tandem with photos of her and Æthel shopping together and having lunch like the sweetest little family you could hope for, have cemented her as the beautiful, honorable face of the young conservative movement. Values, people murmur when they look at her. She has our values.

He's enjoyed the public debate that hovers right below the surface: is she a pureblood? It amuses him to hear people who'd never consider speaking to – much less supporting politically – a muggle-born announce in self-righteous tones that her birth hardly matters, what matters is what she stands for.

She stands for her own personal power, you fools, he wants to say. For the power of our son. For the power of _my_ son.

The whispers that she's Nimue come again, here to sanctify a new dynasty, that she's ancient magic walking again among them, well, he loves those. His name only lends credence to that rumor. She _married_ a dragon this time, people murmur. He's heard a few crass jokes about how last time the Lady gave the pendragon a sword and this time he gives her his sword every night. He's shared those with Theo – who snorted and muttered, 'whatever works to get them fighting for us' - but _not _with Hermione; pregnancy makes her cranky and he'd rather not have turn on him, or, worse, cut him off, in a fit of pique.

Astoria pulls a chair from the table over and joins them, interrupting his smug thoughts. "You and me both with the sparkling water, Lady. I haven't had a drink is so long." She waves Greg away and the man settles next to Theo, leaving the two women, forced to abstain, to their own company.

"This," Marcus looks around as Daphne hands him a glass, "this is not what I expected."

"Oh," Draco drawls from the floor, "usually it's strategy sessions and looking over economic reports. Don't get used to this."

"It's not just that," he looks around, "this is very… I know everyone. I'd have expected more of, ummm, your friends, Lady. Err… begging your pardon."

Hermione looks sour and points to Luna, whose shirt is now halfway off. "Meet Luna. I think she's the token eccentric of this generation as well as our token DA member." Luna pulls one hand out of Blaise's pants and waves in their direction without otherwise halting what seems to be her slow progression to full nudity.

"Get a room," Theo mutters. "Please, dear gods above us all, someone make them get a room."

"Most of my school friends are, I'm afraid, on the other side of this particular revolution." Hermione shrugs. "It's peculiar, I know, but they seem to be resistant to the idea of giving me absolute power."

"Can't imagine why," Greg snorts, holding his hand out towards Theo. "They pretty much did everything you told them in school. Why would this be any different."

"They're weak and they delude themselves," Draco leans his head back against Hermione's leg, almost purring, "with tawdry ideas about democracy. They've prostituted their own ideals for luxuries and leisure and for our land and they tell themselves that because people aren't cowering from a psychopath those people have good lives, free lives they owe to the Order, so they deserve all their goodies."

"Hermione," Theo is almost begging now, "make them stop," and she calls out, "Luna, you guys are welcome to use my old bedroom."

"But I like making Theo uncomfortable," she responds, pulling her mouth off Blaise for a moment. "It's amusing."

"I assure you, I'll be just as uncomfortable picturing what you'll be doing behind closed doors." He makes a face as he eats another pretzel, then another, before he finally starts throwing them at Blaise who turns to glare at the lanky brunette before tugging the girl back into Hermione's room.

"Fine," the man mutters as they slip away, "but I don't know when you became so uptight."

"Of course," Draco continues, as if he hadn't just stopped to admire Luna, as if Hermione hadn't kicked him when she saw his glance, "it's not like we don't delude ourselves as well. The days of pureblood domination are numbered."

"What do you mean?" Pansy glares at him.

"Do the genetic math, Pans. We're going to have to start marrying half-bloods because there just aren't enough people to go around. I mean, unless you _want_ to marry your cousin."

"Doesn't mean the old families have to lose their sway," she snarls, her fingers curled like claws around the stem of her champagne flute.

"And they won't," Hermione says. "Go join Theo and try to relax, Pansy; it's a party. We've talked about this. We're going to start by restoring the estates then reconfiguring the Wizengamot to be one representative per family, one carefully selected representative. You could marry a bloody muggle and your family would still have a seat. You're one of mine, and I'll take care of what is mine."

"I'd sooner die a spinster than marry a filthy muggle-born," Pansy hisses at Theo as he hands her the joint, an amused glint shining in his eyes.

"Who do you plan to have take the Weasley seat," Daphne asks Hermione with a sly smile, wrapping an arm around the still tense Marcus.

Hermione smiles at her. "You can safely assume it won't be Ron," and the woman snickers as Marcus looks from one to the other, trying to decode all the undercurrents.

. . . . . . . . . .

Harry looks at the letter from Astoria Greengrass' solicitor. She wants him to waive all parental rights to their child so _Greg Goyle_ can adopt her. Greg-fucking-Goyle, a man who, by all rights, should hate the girl for having one muggle-born grandparent, a man who had _liked_ doing unforgivable curses, a stupid, awful man who'd been kept from becoming evil by his own incompetence rather than by any strength of character.

She stands up, ruins his political career - and maybe his marriage - with his daughter and then wants to take the girl away from him and give her to _Goyle_.

Oh, hell no. Bloody-fucking-to-the-hell no.

His mind has been spinning since he met Æthel, since he was reminded what it meant to be orphaned; he didn't know his own parents as more than graves and stories and ghosts and he'll be damned before he lets his own daughter grow up not knowing him.

He knows Alicia's very existence infuriates Ginny, knows what he's about to do will make her angrier than he's ever seen her. Still, he takes a quill and starts writing a response to the solicitor, telling the man where he can shove his request to waive parental rights. Telling the man he expected a visitation schedule on his desk. Telling the man he'll never give up his daughter.

. . . . . . . . .

"You're doing _what_?" Ginny narrows her eyes as she stands, balancing herself against the edge of the table.

"How much have you had today," Harry asks.

"Don't avoid my question," she snaps. "Who cares how much I drink, anyway? I'm an adult, I can do what I please." She swipes at her face. "You certainly did."

"Ginny – "

"You cannot bring that whore's daughter into my house. Cannot."

"She's also _my _daughter," Harry says, trying to stay calm, "and I don't want to just abandon her."

"Oh, well, aren't you just father of the year."

"I've said I'm sorry," he hissed. "I've apologized, I've groveled. I've promised to never, never let it happen again. But none of that changes that Alicia exists and that she's mine and I'm not going to let her think I didn't care about her."

"She's got her mother and that monster her mother is marrying, and Hermione and _her_ monster of a husband, and blood bedamned Theodore Nott. She has an entire generation of snakes standing around her. She does not need _you_ to care about her!_"_

"But," Harry tried again, "I'm the only one of all those people who is her father. Ginny…"

"Sometimes I wonder if you ever loved me!"

He looks at her, aghast. "Of course I did. I do, Gin," he pleads with her, "you are the most important thing in my life but…"

"Then do _not _ make me see regular evidence of your fucking in my house."

"That's not fair!"

"Oh, now he cares about fair," she throws her hands up. "Let me tell you about fair. _Fair_ is not publicly humiliating your wife when your little indiscretions come home to roost."

"That doesn't really make sense. Indiscretions don't roost, chickens do." Harry runs his hand through his hair and tries to figure out how much she'd had to drink already. The bottle on the table is mostly full but there's no way to be sure she hadn't finished off a different bottle first. Where did she get all this scotch, anyway?

"Fuck you."

"Ginny, I love you, I've loved you since we were kids, but she's just a little girl. She's my daughter, my child. I'm sorry I had an affair, I am, I really, really am, but I don't want Alicia to suffer because I screwed up."

"But it's okay to make me suffer?" Ginny sinks back down into her seat and Harry watches, feeling helpless, as she pours herself another drink.

"No! I don't want either of you to suffer but, Merlin Ginny, she's a child. I grew up without my parents; you can't ask me to make her do the same thing when I'm right here."

"She has parents. She has Astoria and Goyle. She doesn't need you."

"How can you sit there and say that any child doesn't need her father?" He pauses as she takes a drink. "Please stop drinking so much. I'm really worried about you. Ginny, you're – "

"I'm angry. Angry is what I am," she slams the drink down.

"You're also drunk."

"Well," she stands up taking her glass in one hand, "I'm about to go be drunk and angry in another room. If you bring that girl into our home, I'll be leaving. Time to make a choice, Harry." She walks out with careful control. Only when she's out of sight does he hear her scream of rage and the crash of a glass hitting the wall.

His fingers twitch as he picks up the note she had her seat. It was his mail, a note from Astoria's lawyer, agreeing to his request – his demand – for visitation.

Alicia Carys. His daughter. He hasn't even met her and he's already in love.

No one, not even Ginny, is going to keep him from being a father.

. . . . . . . . .

_Weasley Endorses Granger-Malfoy_

_In a surprise move, Percy Weasley, current Deputy Minister, has endorsed Hermione Granger-Malfoy's candidacy for Minister of Magic._

_In his endorsement Weasley praised her stance on economic reform and her long history of championing the rights of the oppressed while saying no one else "presents a vision for wizarding Britain."_

"_The Order of the Phoenix have lost their way to the point they are now identified largely as playboys and opportunists," he said. "We need a Minister who sees public service as a higher calling than personal ambition and who has a greater goal than self-aggrandizement."_

Ron stops reading and looks across the room at Percy, who's reading a book on the history of the Wizengamot.

"Traitor," he hisses and Percy glances up. "You're endorsing her. 'A greater goal than self-aggra-whatever'? Would it be possible for you to _ever _put your family ahead of your ambition you bloody, worthless prat?"

"She's going to win," Percy says stiffly, "and I have no intention of going down with the Order ship. Maybe if Harry'd been able to keep his pants zipped he'd be a viable candidate but he didn't and he's not. And you? Remember when I asked if you'd done anything to make her go after you? You neglected to tell me you had been _hitting_ her!"

"It was just once," Ron snaps, "and she…"

"You'd really better not be planning on finishing that sentence. You screwed the family over with that, you made us all think she was to blame for your break up and everyone walked away from her, and now, well, here we are. I'm trying to salvage something – anything – and you decide to get self-righteous? You?! She's got every old school pureblood in the country lining up behind her _and_ the ordinary people – the working classes? – they think she's some kind of savior. You can't beat her." He puts his face in his hands, still trying to come to terms with how he doesn't even _want_ to beat her, and then looks up. "This isn't an evil wizard you can defeat on the battlefield, Ron. This is politics, and, yeah, she's playing dirty but, listen to my words very carefully here, you've already lost."

"The election isn't until…"

"Shut up," Percy is almost stewing in his frustration. "You've lost, and if you don't see that I can't help you."

"Your endorsement didn't help," Ron mutters.

"She doesn't need me to win the election," Percy says. "You're the chess player, Ron. Try to figure it out before you get sacrificed."

. . . . . . . . . . .

"Hermione!" Astoria bursts into their flat looking almost hysterical. Draco puts down his pen and looks up from the desk and Hermione stands up from the couch.

"What is it?"

"Lady," Astoria drops to her knees and Hermione flicks a glance at Draco. The young mother has her face in her hands and is holding up a letter. "He's fighting for partial custody."

Hermione tweaks the paper out of the woman's hands and skims it, her eyes hardening. Draco walks over and holds out his hand, quickly reading the text when she hands the note over. He looks at the leader of their little revolution, the former best friend of the man behind this letter and waits for her response. Astoria has crumpled, a supplicant, at their feet.

"Where's Alicia?" Hermione asks.

"With Greg," Astoria chokes out. Then adds, nearly spitting, "With her father. Her _real_ father."

"I can't do anything until after the election," Hermione's saying and Astoria sags a little lower, "but I promise you, he won't take your daughter. It's only four months. Have your solicitor play delaying games as long as you can and once I'm in power I can guarantee any trial will be found in your favor. Harry won't be getting so much as visitation."

Astoria grabs Hermione's hand and kisses it. "Lady," she whispers.

"Go home," Hermione pulls the woman up. "Go home and be with your daughter."

After Astoria has left, wiping at her tears and whispering her gratitude, Draco pulls Hermione into a hug. "I said once you use your favorites hard, love, but you do take care of them too."

"He just won't leave it alone, will he," she mutters into his chest.

"I did tell you," Draco says with a sigh. "He's never going to do what you want. I wish you'd let me…"

"No," she stops him. "I gave you Ron. Be content with that."

Draco holds her against him and wonders what's finally going to be the thing that pushes her to remove Harry Potter from the board permanently.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N – **__Thank you, as always, to everyone for reading and reviewing this. This chapter starts to get morally messy and I'm a trifle wary, I admit, of the responses._

_Lots of love to: lakelady8425, Chester99, Pank98, pagyn, LadiePhoenix007, GTH, Kitty, Amy, LB123, Analena, chibi moon baby, rosierocks30, Crazyarmywife, AnnaxVakarian, Ev'rdeen, ryggrad, Maddy, Honoria Granger, hosiakari7, littlegirlwarrior, Danikae, Terrence Rogue, TheFantabulousPotterHead, Grovek26, Icelynne, xXMiss Alec VolturiXx, Ramyfan, Darc-lover._


	24. Chapter 24 - She's Doing WHAT?

When Harry walks into the shop he's not expecting to learn something, certainly not something that will infuriate him and, will in the end, be his undoing, but that's exactly what happens.

"She's not going to let him have..." It's Daphne's voice that catches his ear, so much like Astoria's that for a moment he jerks his head, expecting to see the woman. By the time his brain has processed that the speaker is the big sister - the one he'd always considered more abrasive - she's moved away, out of his sight. He would have ignored her but what he hears next catches his attention.

"No." This voice belongs to Pansy Parkinson, a woman who time has not, in his opinion, improved, "Hermione'd never let that happen. Not after she..." The woman trails off but Harry steps into the shadows and begins to listen to as much of their conversation as he can.

"I felt so bad for her when he decided to fight for custody," Daphne is saying. "Who would have expected that?"

"Greg's fucking livid," Pansy's agreeing. "He took care of her through that whole pregnancy, gets up with the baby, hell, he bloody well caught the girl when she was born and now jackass scarhead thinks that just because his penis was involved he gets to play daddy."

"It'll never happen." Daphne sounds confident, far too confident for Harry's liking. "Draco told me they've promised her that as soon as the election happens they'll make sure the hearing goes in her favor. It's just three more months; all she has to do is stall until then."

A pair of middle aged women talking about pedicures and whether it's worth it to go to a muggle salon walk by and Harry misses the next bit of their conversation, though he does learn more about cuticles than he'd ever wanted to know. He makes a quick mental note to get Ginny a gift certificate to a spa; maybe that will make her happy, start her at least thinking about talking to him again. She'd thrown the flowers he'd brought her at his head, vase and all.

When he can hear Pansy and Daphne again they're laughing about some party they'd gone to and just as he's thinking he's heard all the useful information he's going to - and it was plenty enraging so he doesn't really need more - he hears, "I never would have pegged Hermione Granger as the one to restore pureblood privileges."

Restore what? Harry stares through the shelves at the two women, as if he could somehow understand more by seeing them as they spoke. Hermione's planning to do what? But she's muggle-born, he thinks to himself. What the hell is going on?

"I thought it was Granger-Malfoy."

He hears a snort from Daphne. "Don't tell Draco that. She's told him she'll be Lady Malfoy after the election but until then it's hyphenation or just plain Granger."

"I gave her the list of estates to take care of," Pansy's continuing. "She's promised me she'll get them all done in the order I listed as soon as she's in power."

"Put yours first, didn't you?"

"Of course. Did you take me for some kind of noble fool?"

A laugh. "Who's second?"

"Theo, of course. Then your family."

"Inner circle first?" Daphne Greengrass sounds smug and pleased and entitled all at once and Harry feels his palm itch to slap the woman and he wonders what the hell she means by 'inner circle'.

"Of course, Lady Greengrass." There's another grating laugh from the loathsome Pansy. "Rank hath its privileges."

"However this all came about," Daphne is saying, "her and Draco and their assorted plans, I'm never, ever going to be sorry I knelt to her, not if she can undo all the Order's thievery. The whole mess with the Dark Lord - our parents were nuts. He was nuts, a complete psychopath. But the Lady? She's bloody brilliant; I wouldn't even care if she turned out to be a filthy mudblood after all."

"I don't think I'd go that far," Pansy snorts. "But that's... you know Draco wouldn't even lower himself to touch her if she weren't actually a Nott from the wrong side of the sheets. She may be an orphan bastard, but... can you imagine Draco starting his bloody dynasty with a muggle-born? The idea is laughable."

Harry, standing there in the shadows eavesdropping, is flabbergasted. Pansy Parkinson truly believes Hermione is a... now that's what's laughable. But, laughable or not, starting a dynasty? With Malfoy? This doesn't sound like Hermione's running for Minister, or not just. He'd not really taken Luna's claim that Hermione was only a pawn that seriously but maybe she was right. Maybe Draco is using her, somehow, to take her position as Minister and use it as a springboard for this baby she's apparently going to have. Hermione's certainly popular enough to redeem even the blasted Malfoys. Her child, her and Malfoy's child, could... could do anything. And Daphne Greengrass knelt to her? The Lady? What is that all about?

"After you, Lady Parkinson," Daphne says, giggling at the title, and the two of them have left the shop and he's left standing in the shadows, his mind racing. He has to find Ron. They have to figure this out.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Æthel got her Hogwarts letter," Hermione says, holding her hand up against Draco's skin. She can never quite believe how pale he is, how even her own skin looks dark when laid against his.

"She's officially eleven, huh?" Draco's watching her admire him, a smirk dancing across his face.

"She is. We should have a party."

"She just had a party."

"No, a real little girl's party, with balloons and cake and… and we should do it at the orphanage. Share it with all the other children. Have goodie bags for all of them. Maybe get that photographer to do a spread?"

Draco looks at her fondly, listening to her turn a simple party into first a generous way to share with her little orphans and then into a propaganda opportunity. "My clever wife," he says, tracing his fingers over the ever-increasing bump of their child.

"I worry about what will happen when she gets to Hogwarts," Hermione's confessing.

He takes her hand and starts to slowly kiss each finger. "She'll be sorted into a house, she'll be judged the same way Theo and I were, she'll negotiate alliances and make some mistakes. Some self-righteous Gryffindors will look down on her because they won't understand the political waters she has to navigate – "

She glares at him, albeit without any real heat. "Maybe she'll get sorted into Gryffindor."

He rolls his eyes. "Really? You think the heir to Nott and the Lady's favorite niece will get put into…"

She sighs and settles her head down against his chest. "I just don't want her to have to suffer because of me."

"She might, a little, but she'll do better than I did; she's already learned some hard lessons about trust and deprivation that will keep her from rubbing her privilege into people's faces. I was," he grins down at her as he squeezes her fingers in his before letting go of her hand, "as you may recall, a total prat about that."

"You still are, ferret boy. We're just on the same side now."

"True enough. Partners in infamy?"

"Certainly that would be Ron's take on it."

"When do I get to kill him, anyway?" He's tracing his fingers around the curve of her breasts now, already swollen. He can't get enough of how her body is changing as their child grows. "You did promise."

"I was thinking maybe an anniversary present," she pulls back from him again, just a little, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. "We could use one of your fetches to leave his apparently dead body with a suicide note, let everyone mourn him, while we quietly relocate the real man to the basement of the manor. It would be a good way to test the magic behind the changeling program and you could play as long as you wanted to."

"That," he says, leaning down to kiss her even as she continues to fumble with his shirt, "would be a wonderful gift."

"Well," she smiles at him, "you're hard to shop for. One has to get creative." She gasps as he slips his fingers under her negligee and starts running the pad of his thumb back and forth across one nipple.

"Enough talk of vengeance, as much as I really do like you when you're evil. Now, maybe, something good instead?" He smiles at her suggestively and she runs her tongue along her bottom lip.

"I could be persuaded," she murmurs and he bends himself to the agreeable task of persuasion.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Ron's worried about Hermione's run for minister," Molly hands the plate of scones around and narrows her eyes at Mundungus as he takes 3.

"Why?" Minerva takes a sip of her tea. "As we too frequently told her at school, she's the brightest witch of her generation. I'm glad to see she's gotten a little polish, gotten married, grown up a little. She's young, of course, but I can't see why she wouldn't do an excellent job."

"Well," Molly hedges, "we all thought Harry…"

"Who has enough to do keeping his marriage to your daughter intact after his little fall from grace. I'm surprised at you, Molly. I'd think you'd want him to focus on patching things up with her."

"Mums just upset because she bought into Ronniekins rubbish about 'Mione," George snorts, taking two of the scones. "These are the best." Both older women look at him and he shrugs and elaborates, "I talked to Percy, you know, after he endorsed her. She left Ron because he hit her, that's what she told Percy and apparently Ron confirmed it. It wasn't because she was some kind of gold-digging tramp or whatever utter shite he told everyone at the time."

"That can't be right," Molly shakes her head. "If he'd done anything like that, Harry would have…"

"Stuck with his girlfriend and the rest of his pseudo-family," George cuts her off and Mundungus nods in agreement, scone crumbs clinging to his mouth.

"I really don't think you need to worry, Molly," Minerva pats the woman on the hand. "She'll be an excellent Minister. Whatever Ron's worries are, well, it sounds like they're most likely just borne out of the guilt he feels about their messy past. People most hate those whom they know they've wronged, you know."

"And," George adds, "You might as well get used to the idea of Minister Granger-Malfoy because I think the only person running against her, now that Harry's out of the race, is some nutjob who thinks he's Sir Gawain reborn."

. . . . . . . . .

"Pansy, thank you for meeting me." Hermione waves a waitress over, "just sparkling water for me. Wine?" she looks at the other woman who turns to the waitress and says, "House white, please."

"And cheese," Hermione smiles at the waitress. "Lots of cheese."

"Are you allowed to eat cheese?"

Hermione rolls her eyes and Pansy laughs. "I won't tell Daphne if you won't. Honestly, that woman and her obsession with pregnancy and all the things that could possibly go wrong. Astoria was fine, I'll be fine." The waitress has hesitated and Hermione repeats, "No, really, the cheese plate, please. If it'll make you feel better to bring the crackers, go ahead but I'm eating the cheese. Lots and lots of cheese."

"I want the crackers," Pansy interjects. The waitress looks from one of them to the other and does the politest variant on 'backing away slowly' either woman has seen in a while.

"Do you think she'll really bring us food?" Hermione asks plaintively. "I'm afraid we might have scared her."

"If she doesn't, you can storm the kitchen," Pansy says with a shrug.

"So," Hermione frowns, letting go, for a moment, her urge for cheese and pulling a pad of paper out of her bag, "I was hoping you could help with the reconfiguration of the Wizengamot."

Pansy scootches her chair closer to the other woman and slides the paper over to her. Hermione's written a neat list of the pureblood families in one column. A second column has names scrawled, crossed out, decorated with question marks; it's a mess.

"Have I missed any families, that's the first thing," Hermione's looking at the list she's created, reading it upside down even though she's stared at it so long she's easily got it memorized.

Pansy runs her eyes down the list. "Some of these don't exist anymore, like the Blacks or the Crabbes." She looks up slyly. "Sirius Black left everything to Potter so I suppose _technically_ you could call – "

"Oh, hell no." Hermione gives Pansy a look that would have intimidated most people but just makes Pansy laugh. "Totally aside from the minor problem that hardly a day passes that Draco doesn't ask when he gets to…," she pauses because they are, after all, in a public restaurant.

"Understood," Pansy grins at her.

"Plus, he's not exactly going to be willing to vote our way. We need a _few_ people who clearly don't belong to us but he might be a bit much; he does still have a lot of sway and he could pull people his way if we let him have any kind of significant public role. I was thinking Neville, whose parents remain untainted Order heroes – "

"It's amazing how being insane and institutionalized has kept them out of trouble," Pansy sees the waitress heading towards them and adds, "So Astoria has decided on green for her bridesmaids."

"Subtle," Hermione says, taking her water and thanking the waitress before she pops a piece of cheese into her mouth.

"You'll have to go and be fitted – expect a note," Pansy continues as the waitress walks away, then adds. "No, he's a good choice. He's pureblood _and_ Order _and _ a war hero _and _he's been living out of the thick of politics doing his plant things."

"And he's not averse to a little influence peddling," Hermione adds, "as per his adoption."

Pansy nods, then turns her attention back to the list. "Well, since Saint Potter is out, you might have trouble finding a Black."

"Andromeda?"

"Ah, I'd forgotten about her what with the muggle marriage and all." Pansy wrinkles her nose. "Isn't she raising that werewolf kid?"

"I was thinking about Narcissa too, but we might need her to sit on the Malfoy seat." Hermione picks up another generous hunk of cheese and starts to gnaw on it.

"Not Draco?" Pansy is trying not to laugh as Hermione devours the parmesan and moves on to some kind of washed cheese. "Not caramels anymore?"

But Hermione shakes her head. "Caramels and cheese. And sometimes at the same time." Picking up another piece of cheese she adds, "Draco's too obvious what with him being the consort and all. He'll have to settle for influencing me directly instead of having pseudo-legislative power."

Pansy laughs openly at that then looks back at the list, considering the different options within each family. "I know it'll piss my grandfather off, but maybe Grandma Eustacia instead? She's savvier than you'd think under all those feathers and – "

Hermione nods. "That's what I want you to do, Pansy. Get me a list of whom you think we should appoint. Add a couple of people like Neville to make it look genuine but otherwise stack it with people who'll do what I ask."

"I'm honored you'd trust me with this," Pansy looks serious for a moment. "Are you sure you wouldn't prefer Theo or Blaise or…"

"No, I think you're the perfect person for this task." Hermione sets her cheese down. "I know you've been mostly writing propaganda fluff instead of dealing with dark spells or economics but you've been deeply immersed in pureblood politics since birth. You'll know when the obvious choice is the wrong one, and you don't just naturally assume the patriarchs should get the seats."

"Girl power?" Pansy arches an eyebrow.

"Why not? Families like the Greengrasses don't even have any male heirs; unless you want to start bringing in halfbloods – " Pansy makes a face " - then you're going to have to look to the girls. And I'm not sure Blaise is quite ready to make that mental leap."

"True enough, that. Thank you for your trust, Lady." It's a brief moment of formality before Hermione, still not wholly comfortable with how quickly her people have embraced the medieval structures, shakes her head and says, "Green? Really? Does she plan to carry a bouquet of decorative grasses too?" and Pansy laughs again.

. . . . . . . . . .

"So...," the woman looks up from the paper and squints at her husband, "they borrowed the money that was supposed to buy food for the poor, invested it with muggles, and the muggles took it all?"

"Pretty much," the man mutters, stabbing his fork into his eggs.

"Well, I guess it's good they'll be out of power after the election."

"Problem is," the man says, "they'll still be all over the government with their corrupt little paws. That Lady is going to have a hell of a job cleaning house."

. . . . . . . . . .

The two men sit in the corner of the pub. Ron's already ripped down the limerick of the week; this edition of the poem had made some biologically impossible suggestions about what Order members did with Phoenixes. The waitress had glared at him when he pulled it down and he'd hissed, "I could have Shaklebolt shut you down," and she'd sullenly retreated to behind the bar where she and some other slattern hovered, watching the two of them when they weren't bringing out orders.

"I met with Luna and Lady Nott," Harry says after the waitress slams their pints down. She's clearly no fan of the two of them.

"She brought the orphan brat with her?"

"She did." Harry tips the glass back and takes a swig. "Kiddo dropped that her father - who she calls 'Lord Nott', by the way - "

"Charming," Ron snorts.

" - tells her 'Mione is a pawn."

"Really?" Ron looks interested.

"Really." Harry glances up at the bar to find the waitresses both staring at them. Weird. "Luna said Draco and Theo were driving her hard, that she was tired. Kid said she'd been sick and Luna said she was expecting a baby so my guess is the kid's seeing her miserable because of pregnancy and thinking that's illness."

"She's having his baby?" Ron makes a face. "That's just gross."

"Tell me about it. Can you imagine him naked? All pale and pointy?"

"I'd actually rather have not had that image in my head. Thanks. Scarred for fucking life is what I am now." Ron takes another drink and mutters, "not enough beer in all the seas to wash that image from my brain."

"If the beer were in the sea you couldn't drink it."

Ron rolls his eyes. "Whatever. So, she's knocked up."

"It gets worse."

"It can get worse than sex with Malfoy?"

Harry nods. "Oh, it can. I overheard Pansy and the older Greengrass bitch - "

"Daphne?" Ron asks.

"That's the one. They were talking about how Malfoy's founding a bloody dynasty. Pansy thinks 'Mione's a pureblood. Totally, absolutely believes it."

"The woman has 'mudblood' carved in her arm. What the hell?"

"That's what I thought," Harry's nodding, "but she's convinced Malfoy wouldn't touch her if she weren't 'pure'. Thinks Hermione's some kind of bastard Nott."

"It's because he walked her down the aisle," Ron says. "It's something a brother does if no father is around. The man did all but come out and take an ad in the paper that he considers her to be his half-sister."

"Well, apparently the two of them are in cohoots to pass 'Mione off as a pureblood, use her kid to start some kind of, well, new Malfoy dynasty. That's the word they used. And little miss Nott said her father had told her she'd be a queen. 'Aunt 'Mione is a pawn but I'll be a queen.'"

"They plan to cradle betroth," Ron breathes in horror. "Use Hermione to get the boy, engage the boy to Nott's daughter - no wonder he adopted a girl. I thought that was odd for such a traditional arse. Then Malfoy and Nott control the pair of them."

"How can they possibly know she'll have a boy?" Harry objects.

Ron snorts. "Malfoys always have boys. Maybe it's magic, maybe they only shoot Ys, who knows. But it's always boys, has been for generations."

"But what does it matter," Harry's shaking his head, still trying to put the pieces together. "I know Malfoy thinks he's a bloody aristocrat but the Minister controls Wizarding Britain, the Minister and the Wizengamot."

"And Hermione will be Minister in a few months time," Ron taps his fingers on the table.

"Lady." Harry breathes out. "Those two called her 'Lady'."

"Well, technically I suppose Lady Malfoy is her title," Ron shrugs, not quite sure where Harry is going with that.

"Not 'The Lady' it's not. And Daphne mentioned kneeling to her."

"Fealty." Ron looks at Harry. "If she knelt to her she offered her fealty, as if she were some kind of medieval queen." He gets up and stalks over to the board, the same one he'd pulled the limerick off earlier. There. There in the corner is a copy of the article from the _Prophet_ on Nimue. He yanks it down too and returns to his table, gives it to Harry.

"She's going for queen. Or, more likely since Malfoy's obviously running the show, king-maker. Not sure how but…"

"And that baby is the king." Harry looked at Ron. "What do we do?"

"Stop them," Ron said grimly. "Whatever it takes. Because, I don't know about you, but I'm not interested in an absolute monarch, whether it's the bleeding Dark Lord or Draco Malfoy whispering into Hermione's ear."

. . . . . . . . . .

"They were both in here," the woman says, wiping down the glasses and sliding them, one at a time, back into their places above the bar. "The bastard ripped down things off our board like he owned the place. He bloody well threatened to have Shacklebolt shut us down."

Blaise leans up against the bar and listens to her words but, also, to how incredibly angry she is. More and more the populace seems to just seethe whenever the come into contact with the Order and Ron helps that along. He blunders, he stumbles, he rubs his ill-gotten gains and power in people's faces and then wonders when they don't like him. It doesn't surprise Blaise that Hermione left this man; what he wonders about is what she'd ever seen in him to begin with. Fine, they were friends in school but he'd been friends with Pansy and you sure didn't see him shagging _her_. Wanting to marry _her_. The idea makes him want to take a hot shower and have a stiff drink.

Luna, now. He'd marry Luna in a heartbeat if she'd have him, even though he still thinks she might be completely nuts. He's just decided he doesn't care. Not, of course, that he's asked her because she might say no and that would be too humiliating to bear.

He wonders what Hermione's timeline is for getting rid of Ron. He assumes it's after the election because Ron's ability to antagonize everyone he meets is far too valuable a gift to kill off right now. Just by existing he discredits the Order. Still, he hopes Draco will share when they finally eliminate the man. This is the fourth waitress he's had to soothe this month and it's getting really tiresome. Every member of the underground wants to tell him how rude Ron is, how sloppy. How they find him tucked away with whatever tramps he brings in doing unspeakable things.

Blaise admits to himself that he rather admires the man's ability to find an apparently endless stream of women who, despite his dwindling popularity, are still willing to suck him off in closets. And men's bathrooms. And, if the woman at the last shop he'd stopped in was to be believed, the religious section of the bookstore; that was fairly ballsy, getting blown next to tracts on finding meaning in spirituality.

All he says is, "Potter too?"

"The Chosen One himself," she mutters with a snort. "I don't know what they were talking about, not in full, but I heard the Lady's name and they were being damned secretive."

Potter and Weasley, talking about Hermione. Blaise frowns. That can't be good. "Thank you," he says to her, "for bringing this to my attention. I appreciate it, and so will the Lady. Let me know if they come back."

"I will," she says, wiping down the counter with a vicious swipe of her rag. "The bastards."

. . . . . . . . . . .

Harry reads the letter from that woman's solicitor. That woman who has ruined his life and who is being difficult about the one thing he bloody well wants from her. Who is, apparently, delaying his attempts to see his daughter just like her fucking sister and that goddamned Pansy had said she would.

'_Given the very public evidence of your wife's alcoholism,' _the letter reads, along with '_feel you cannot provide a wholesome environment' _and _'must refuse your request until you can provide proof Alicia Carys Goyle would be safe in your care.'_

Her last-fucking-name is _not_ Goyle, he thinks in a rage. Alicia Carys _Potter_ will be totally safe in his care. He'll dump all of Ginny's booze today. He'll haul her to St. Mungo's to dry out. _Fuck_ Astoria. Fuck her, fuck her, _fuck_ _her_.

No one can keep him from this girl, from this daughter. No one.

. . . . . . . . .

_**A/N**__ – I say it every time but I do really mean it; thank you to everyone who takes the time to review. I appreciate it so much. Booker 10, lumoslit, Midnight Little One, Chester99, Grovek26, beieverofmajick, Artemisgodess, jadedlady, Faebreeze, rosierocks30, Maddy, Honoria Granger, Amy, fspsarcastic, wintergirlsmith, Kitty, chibi moon baby, LadiePhoenix007, aeireis, Icelynn, AnnaxVakarian, JenCala28, Guest, Analena, dracosgirl007, my name is mommy, Ramyfan, ryggrad, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, Dark D-Knight, hosiakari7, Casy13, pagyn, dulce de leche go, pinklights._

_And, as I also tend to repeat, I shamelessly beg you to try the other dark fic I'm writing with my partner in crime, dulce de leche go, A Bodyguard of Lies. It's… it's really dark. Dystopian and bleak with Hermione more as a grim survivor in an alternate universe than a political mastermind but I love it so._

_And I've got a twitter account I'm on too much. Colubrina__

_Every once in a while someone says something like "it was so cool to see you updated on my birthday." Give me a heads up your birthday is coming and I can write you a dramione drabble. _

_Oh, yeah, and your reviews make my day :)_


	25. Chapter 25 - More Things About Children

**A/N – Generalized trigger warning. As I mentioned before, I'm not going to do specific warnings. Consider yourself warned for any and all things involving violence and death.  
**

**. . . . . . . . . .**

Hermione has to admit Astoria's bridesmaid dress design is fiendishly clever. The dresses themselves are simple and manage, while being wholly modern, to evoke a feel of the past. "I used," the designer is saying, "twelfth century formal gowns as my jumping off point. I wanted to make people think about knights and ladies without actually having you all in costumes. That's a bit hokey in my opinion." She's fussing the fit on Daphne and Hermione watches her wondering how, exactly, this woman plans to accommodate her own ever-expanding girth. She may barely show when she's dressed now but every day she seems to be a different shape. The pregnancy panel answers her question. "So you'll have this gathering that will drop over your abdomen; I'm leaving plenty of fabric and I'll make final adjustments to the fit the day of the wedding."

"That's a lot of work," Hermione murmurs as she adjusts the dress around herself.

The designer gives her a nearly scandalized look. "I'm dressing the future Minister and getting a full 3-page fashion editorial spread. It has to be perfect. " She pauses and then, as so many people do now, adds, "Lady."

"I haven't been elected yet," Hermione demurs and the designer scoffs as she pins up another pleat of the green silk. "Well, I haven't," she repeats and this time the other woman actually laughs.

"Give it a rest, Hermione," Daphne says, pulling her own gown over her head and handing it off to an assistant. "The only two people who could have realistically opposed you were Potter and Percy Weasley. Potter's out and Percy's endorsed you. You're our golden, watery, girl."

"Our very own Lady," the assistant adds as she hangs Daphne's dress on the rack. "And our very own princling."

"I'd be honored," the designer adds with a coy smile, "if you'd let our firm give the little prince a christening gown."

"Talk to Narcissa Malfoy," Hermione's struggling to get the dress off and the assistant hurries over to help her ease it over her head. "She handles all of our formal entertaining."

"I'll do that," the woman dips in a small but unmistakable curtsey. Daphne grins at the expression on Hermione's face as she helps her back into her sleek black wrap dress; Hermione had actually gasped when she'd seen the price tag before Narcissa had snatched it out of her sight. It had seemed like an obscene amount of money to spend on a dress she would only be able to wear for a few months but arguing with Narcissa Malfoy, she's learned, never went well, especially when it came to clothes.

Draco, Hermione thought, was the same way about shoes. Being four months pregnant was no excuse to wear flats in whatever delusional world he lived in. Daphne, with her pregnancy safety obsession, had turned out to be a valuable ally in the shoe department and she tucked Hermione's heels into her bag and pulled out a pair of ballet flats. "I won't tell if you don't," she grinned and Hermione huffed out a sigh of relief.

"I knew I liked you. Want a seat on the Wizengamot?"

"Not my parents?" Daphne held open the door as they left the shop.

"Inner circle privileges," Hermione smirked as they made their way towards an ice cream shop. "Are you letting me have ice cream?"

"It's pasteurized," Daphne snorts, "so it's fine. I wish you'd stop with the cheese though; I know you aren't careful." She pauses as they cross the street, then adds, "Are all the inner circle going to be…"

"No." Hermione shakes her head. "Not Pansy. It'll be her grandmother. I need my people to be able to hold two apparently contradictory ideas simultaneously and Pansy's a bit, uh..."

"Rigid in her thinking?" Daphne nods. "What sort of ideas are you concerned about?"

Hermione eyes her as they both settle into seats and finally says, "I need people who can see me as Theo's sister and also – " she holds out her arm. Mudblood.

"Well," Daphne orders a milkshake and then, as Hermione turns the menu back and forth in her hands trying to make a decsion, says to the waitress, "Just make it two." At Hermione's look she rolls her eyes. "Trust me. They're good." There's a pause and then Daphne adds. "I like to think of myself as more of a pragmatist than an ideologue."

"Ideologues do so rarely win," Hermione murmurs to which Daphne says, "Exactly. I care far more about winning than about… other things."

. . . . . . . . . . .

When she enters Blaise Zabini's flat the first thing Hermione notices is Luna, spread-eagled on the floor and staring at the ceiling. She calls out a greeting but doesn't move.

Hermione, used to Luna, steps over her and makes herself at home on the couch. "I wanted to stop by and thank you," she says to Blaise, "for helping Neville and Hannah."

Blaise laughs and hands her a mug of tea. "Decaffeinated – don't worry," he says, and then "It was my pleasure, Lady, and trivial enough to do. I thought one of your goals was getting all those kids placed."

"It is," she nods, "but I still appreciate your help."

"My life is yours," he says with a shrug. "Are Neville and Hannah going to join…"

She cuts him off. "I don't think so. They're good people and we, alas, are not. You might have noticed."

"It's true," he shrugs again as he settles next to her on his couch. "I have a number of wonderful qualities but I am an evil bastard."

"Really?" Luna turns her head to look at them. "I thought your parents were married."

"I was using the term in its colourful sense, not as an actual description of my legitimacy, or lack thereof."

"Ah." Luna pauses. "I don't really think you're evil either."

"Good to know, love, but I think you might be biased."

"No." Luna props herself up on one elbow. "The whole question of what makes a person good, or evil, is quite an interesting one, don't you think? Aristotle would argue that you can't be a good person without power, in which case none of us are currently good. Can you be evil without power?" She lay back down and returned to starting at the ceiling. "I wonder if a state can be good or if virtue is restricted to individuals? And, in the same vein, can a state be evil?"

"I didn't know you knew Aristotle," Hermione sips from her tea.

"I had to read it in translation so I'm not sure it counts." Luna closes her eyes. "My ancient Greek is pretty bad. Makes me feel dirty to read things in translation, though, like I'm being naughty somehow."

Blaise quirks an eyebrow up, a look Hermione studiously ignores.

. . . . . . . . . .

"I'm," Blaise pauses later that afternoon and studies Draco, "I don't want to say 'worried'. I'm not even sure I want to say 'concerned'. Let's call it 'cautious.'" They're back in Theo's least favorite pub, that exclusive, hidden, seedy bastion of privilege and slovenliness. For all the filth and poor service it remains the best place to have a private conversation away from the women in their lives; it's what men have used the place for for decades.

"Why are you telling me and not her?" Draco narrows his eyes and looks at his old friend. "She gets… peeved… when we keep things from her."

"I know, but…" Blaise trails off then mutters, "It's about Potter and Weasley."

"Shit," Draco rubbed his face with his hand; he could feel the pain starting right between his eyes. "And you know she won't let me just bloody well kill them." He signals the bartender for another drink. He can already tell he's going to need one.

"Third act fucking problems," Blaise agreed. "They met up in a pub – managed to piss the waitress off but good – and had some secretive conversation about the Lady."

"Did she get any details?" Draco has started to rub his temples. It's never anything specific with those two, just a general sense of sulky unhappiness. They've been this way since he met them; he finds it considerably less appealing in the adults and it wasn't like it had been all that appealing in the boys. Still, you can forgive quite a bit of someone destined to destroy a psychopath; a man who likes to sleep around gets cut a lot less slack. His sidekick still less.

"No," Blaise shook his head in frustration. "I spend more time getting snippets of information Ron's behavior than I'd like but nothing really useful. You would not believe how many conversations I've had with people disenchanted with him. I'm not sure there's a woman in food service in all of wizarding London he hasn't managed to antagonize; apparently no one ever told him that if you have women blowing you under your table you should leave the waitress a tip for looking the other way."

Draco nearly chokes on his beer. "He has women doing _what_? And then he doesn't _tip?_"

"I've got your photographer friend planning an expose of Order hedonism, to be run with black bars over the naughty bits and a warning that viewer discretion is advised, which should ensure it gets read by absolutely everyone. We have pictures of him all over London with tons of different girls; you could publish an entire porno mag of his exploits alone. I mean, it would be repetitive and no one would want to look at it because –

"Weasley."

"Exactly. All ruddy and flushed." Blaise tips his beer towards his mouth then adds, "Some of the women are hot though."

"I didn't need that image in my head; thank you so very much." Draco can picture Weasley, ruddy and flushed as Blaise put it, belittling Hermione and feels his desire to kill the man drift back to the surface of his thoughts. Five more months until their anniversary and his promised present; he's never been so eager for time to pass.

"Have another drink," Blaise is saying. "Alcohol can sterilize almost anything."

"Not enough alcohol in all the world to cleanse that damn spot, mate."

"What do we do about them?" Blaise is serious again. "I don't know what they're up to but I'm sure it's bad news. Probably inept and annoying bad news but still, we need to get them out of the way. For all that Potter is a fool, he's still the 'Chosen One' and some people do still listen to what he has to say. If he came out against Hermione it could be bad. I don't want to overreact or be paranoid but…"

"People have underestimated that man before." Draco agrees, rubbing the bridge of his nose again. "But, fuck, I ask _all the time_ for permission to kill him. She's never going to give it, not until it's too late. For now, I don't know, just track them both, see if you can figure out what they're up to. Maybe she'll give the go ahead if it's bad enough. I doubt it, but we can try."

"Could we just take care of it? Use the 'better to ask forgiveness than get permission' method?" Blaise asks the question but they both know the answer.

"Not if we want to live," Draco says grimly.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco Malfoy, heir to the house of Malfoy, technically Lord Malfoy, well-known throughout wizarding London as an arrogant, condescending prat, sprawls naked on his bed, his face inches from Hermione's belly. "Can he hear me, do you think?" he asks.

"I have no idea," Hermione's propped up on one elbow watching him. The second trimester of pregnancy, she has decided, is glorious. After spending the first third of pregnancy alternating between nausea and a desire to eat every caramel that ever existed she's glad the books turned out to be right; she's ready to pounce on Draco at every possible opportunity. She feels _great. _ No wonder Molly had had so many kids.

"Hi, baby," Draco's talking to her belly. "I can't wait to meet you."

Hermione has to hold her hand over her mouth to muffle the laughter. Of all the things she'd ever expected to happen in her life, Draco Malfoy babbling on like a besotted fool to what had once been her waistline wouldn't have made a list of the top hundred. Hell, it wouldn't have made the top _ten thousand_ but here he was. "Did you know your mother is brilliant? She's the smartest witch I ever knew."

"If I didn't know better," Hermione drawls, "I'd say you were trying to soften me up for something."

"Don't listen to her," Draco flicks a quick glance at her face before returning to her abdomen. "She's just jealous I'm reading this scintillating book to you instead of rubbing her feet but that's what she gets for swapping out her shoes with Daphne. I believe, baby mine, when we left off, the caterpillar had indulged in an excess of gastronomical delights and felt unwell. So…," he opens up his book and begins to read again.

Draco Malfoy reading muggle children's books to their unborn child would also have never made any list of 'things Hermione Granger expected to see happen in her lifetime.' Fortunately, she thinks, I can adapt, and she lay back to enjoy the sound of his voice while gathering her strength for another go-round.

. . . . . . . . . .

Molly flips through the Prophet while she sips her morning tea. She's supposed to meet Ginny for lunch; she's worried about the girl's drinking and has decided, against Arthur's advice, to confront her about it. Time to settle down, have a baby of her own, keep Harry's attention on her instead of his tramps and their offspring.

She turns the page. Oh look, there's a sale on yarn. You can never have too much yarn, not if you're a knitter. Wealth hasn't ended the tyranny of the homemade jumper. All Weasleys can expect one every year at Christmas. Now she just makes them out of things like homespun alpaca instead of acrylic.

She idly wonders as she flips another page whether she should use up her stash of acrylic making sweaters for all those orphans. They'd just had a board meeting the night before to try to come up with a coherent response to the revelations of the conditions. The group had agreed to do a fund-raising ball over Christmas this year and this time to really use the money to spruce the place up, make it look a little cheerier. Some paint, some books and they'll schedule another walk-through of the place with a photographer and everyone will back off about the poor little Death-Eater orphans.

Another turn of the page finds her face to face with the society section. Nothing, thank Merlin, about Ron this time. He's another one she needs to talk to. If what Percy said is true… but she's sure Hermione either lied or Percy misunderstood. Still, he needs to stop with the playboy nonsense and find a girl he can actually respect and settle down. Molly squints at the main story. A children's birthday party? How… quaint. Who would allow their child's party to be photographed for the paper?

She starts to read the article and feels tension creep in behind her shoulder blades.

'_Lord Theodore Nott has continued his support of the Order of the Phoenix Memorial Orphanage, hosting his new daughter's eleventh birthday at the institution. Lady Æthel Nott forewent presents at her own party, opting instead to give a goody bag to each resident. The children were also treated to a lavish spread of cake, ice cream and, this reporter has been assured, some healthy dining options. The young Lady Nott is clearly an example of the kind of consideration and generosity we'd like to see from all our leaders but so rarely do. Certainly the Board of Directors of the orphanage could stand to learn from her example.'_

Maybe they should rethink the fund-raising ball, do something a little more hands on. A toy drive so people can give the little monsters presents, maybe. Molly doesn't personally feel it's worth it to waste either time or money on the offspring of the people who'd tried to kill her family in two separate wars – the little brats should be grateful they've got a roof over their heads and food on their table - but being publicly scolded in the paper stings.

. . . . . . . . . .

Kingsley Shacklebolt has the papers spread out over his desk when Percy enters the room. It's not a pretty article; Percy had read it at home and felt tremendous relief that his name had, indeed, been kept out of it.

Shacklebolt has not been so fortunate.

The article, which had no obvious – or even subtle – connection to Hermione, laid out the details of their entire scheme. Percy had blanched when he'd read it; somehow it hadn't seemed so bad when they were actually doing it but, reading about it, he realized how ill advised, how downright idiotic, the entire scheme had been. When he'd first heard the idea - we'll skim money from the muggle technology registration-permitting program, hide it in the orphanage budget, and then invest it internationally – it had seemed so clever. We'll make so much more, Shacklebolt had told him. We can use the extra funds to increase the food aid budgets, use the extra funds to get extra things for those orphans and if some of the money goes missing, well, we're already keeping double books, who will notice? Percy had never quite realized how the scheme implicated his parents: his father's department, his mother's charity. He'd never really thought about how vile it was to use a facility that was supposed to care for children to line his own pockets. He'd never thought about what happened if the investments failed.

They'd had such good intentions. Well, mostly good, anyway.

His father was named, though the article painted him as a dupe who had no idea what was going on under his own nose rather than as a villain. '_Arthur Weasley,' _it read, '_apparently spends so much time playing with the muggle toys he's supposed to be regulating he failed to notice the revenue shortfalls in his own department's bookkeeping.' _The paper's take on his mother is less kind. '_Whether the Board of Directors were indifferent or hostile to the well being of the children in their care may prove irrelevant as the Winzengamot explores their legal culpability in more detail."_

Still, it could be a lot worse.

It is worse for Shacklebolt. There have been other articles, other revelations. When Russia seized everything the _Prophet_ reported that; the reporter had even managed to dig up the connection to the food aid program. '_People to go hungrier due to illegal government investment program gone awry.'_ This, however, is the first time the paper has named names.

Not his name. Seeing how pale Shacklebolt looks Percy suddenly realizes how much he owes to Hermione. That could be him.

"Well," the man says, "They aren't quite burning me in effigy yet but..."

"I'm sure it will blow over," Percy says, not even convincing himself. "It's a complex economic problem; most people will go look at the society pages instead."

"Have you looked at the society pages?" Shacklebolt snorts.

"Of course not," Percy says, somewhat insulted. His brother reads the society pages. Hell, his brother _is_ the society page. He reads the business section, the news section. He's been known to steal a glance at the sports pages if no one is looking. But he has trouble mustering even the slightest interest in who went to what party wearing what and so never looks that part of the paper.

"You should," the Minister tells him, and shoves the paper across his desk. Percy looks at the pictures of the children's party in some confusion until he reads the snippy little gossip accompanying them. He wonders whether Hermione had engineered the timing of the orphanage funding scandal reveal to coordinate with her niece's party; if so, that's fairly impressive. He wonders how much of the _Prophet_ she has in her pocket. She has at least one writer, certainly.

He wonders if she'll really get him a seat on the Wizengamot. Would he have to try his own mother for accounting improprieties? Surely he could recuse himself from that case. Surely she'd let him do that. Right?

"I'm sure everything will be fine," he says again. "In a day or two people will have forgotten."

He doesn't believe it, though.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo holds the list in his hand and thinks he probably should have taken Pansy up on her offer to help. He'd just wanted to do it on his own, to have this moment. Æthel's tired, and as much as she's trying to hold it together he can tell she's had enough and, damn it, there are photographers following them and they still have to get her a wand and a pet. Assuming she wants a pet.

"Do you want a pet, princess?"

She's sitting on the edge of a water fountain, bags piled at her feet. She's got books, and a cauldron, and potion supplies, and so many other supplies he can't quite believe it.

Did we have to buy our own supplies, Theo wonders. He hadn't remembered that. The school list is really long and incredibly specific. It has to be _this _brand of quill; _that _brand of quill will be immediately confiscated. No Weasley products whatsoever. Get five of these and two of those and only locally sourced globworts will be accepted. He'd initially been irritated that Narcissa had taken care of all the clothes; now he's grateful.

"What did Aunt 'Mione have," she asks, perking up a little. Pets are more fun than textbooks.

Theo desperately tries to remember what Hermione had had in school. He'd ignored her at the time, of course: wrong house, wrong blood, wrong friends. "As I recall," he closes his eyes and tries to picture the awkward girl she'd been. She had had this… "Cat. She had a big, ugly cat. Orange, I think."

"What did you have?"

"My father felt pets were unnecessary," Theo ruffles her hair. "Do _you_ want one?"

"I want a cat," she says.

"A big, ugly, orange one?" he asks, trying to hide his amusement.

She frowns at him and he gives up and laughs. "You can have whatever you want, sweetheart. If we have to go to every pet shop in the city to find you your cat, we will."

"I want a kitten. A black kitten."

"Why black?"

She looks down at her bags and mutters something and he squats down so he can hear her over the sound of the fountain and the people walking by. "Because," she says, still looking down, "I'm going to miss you and if the kitten has the same color hair you do it'll seem like having you there a little bit."

That's the photo that ends up in the papers. They've been being followed most of the day, which has both been incredibly irritating and has given Theo a belated sense of sympathy for Harry Potter, but of all the shots people have taken the one that ends up published is Æthel caught up in a fierce hug as he pulls her to him. Hermione, he thinks, gave this girl to him. If it hadn't been for her he'd never have ended up on the path that led him to this daughter of his heart. He's never going to stop being grateful for that.

If anyone hurt Æthel he doesn't know what he'd do. Sending her off to school, knowing she's going to have to deal with all the politics of Hogwarts is bad enough. If someone actually hurt her he doubts he'd be able to control himself.

. . . . . . . . . .

Ron is the one who finds her, multiple bottles empty around her, lying on the floor, a list in front of her with names on it. Astoria Greengrass, next to which she'd written 'baby'. Cho Chang, labeled 'abortion'. Others he didn't recognize, some also tagged 'abortion', some just the name.

He cleans up the vomit, hides the note. He doesn't want anyone to see his baby sister that way when they come to get her body. It's funny, he thinks later, how he doesn't even cry. It's funny, he'll say to Harry later, as the two men sit and stare at one another, how he just felt numb.

He wonders if he should blame Harry, thinks maybe he should, but he can't. Harry seems so lost without her. For all that his friend, the hero of the world, had slept with women with alarming indifference to anything but his own immediate pleasure, he'd adored Ginny. He'd loved her madly, passionately.

The war broke him, Ron thinks, and he tried to glue the pieces back together with sex. It didn't work, of course, but he can't really blame the man for trying. After all, I use the same adhesive, or try to, Ron thinks, when I work to keep myself from falling apart.

He blames Astoria. What had that fucking bitch been thinking, keeping the baby, demanding Harry recognize her, recognize the child? The rest of the women had known it was nothing, had known it meant nothing. Why had Astoria been different? Why did she think she was so special?

More, he blames Hermione.

He's not sure how Hermione had known about Astoria, what role she played in that, but when she went to that campaign event, when she'd flipped Harry off from the doorway, she might as well have declared war.

And now his baby sister is dead; she's drunk herself to death in the wake of her husband's infidelities and it has to be someone's fault.

He knows Harry thinks Malfoy's the driving force behind Hermione's run for Minister, behind whatever else she's doing, but Harry's always had some weird thing about Malfoy. He's biased. Not, of course, that the man isn't an utter, loathsome prat and Ron's willing to believe the political stuff is all Malfoy, but this thing where Hermione seems to be targeting his family, that's personal.

No, he thinks, it's Hermione's fault. Maybe Astoria just got caught, just couldn't abort the baby. But Hermione, she's using this. She's been _gloating_ about Harry's fall from grace, about Ginny's suffering.

It's her fault. She hates him and she's trying to take everything from him, everything from Harry.

Fine. The bitch – the 'Lady' - wants a war? He'll give her a war.

. . . . . . . . .

_**A/N - **__I'm sure you all saw that coming._

_Thank you to the many wonderful people who reviewed the last chapter. I try to respond personally to everyone who was logged in and allows PMs but let me add a public thank you to you all: lakelady8425, aeireis, DarkFairy8605, LadiePhoenix007, Pank98, pagyn, Chester 99, AnnaxVakarian, Guest, Naykaysaybay, dracosgirl007, Ilovepi, Amy, hosiakari7, Ramyfan, Esrath, lumoslit, jadedlady, Analena, moriah, my name is mommy, KincaidBabe, Booker10, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, Artemisgodess, LB123, Grovek26, ryggrad, Maddy, dcyr, Ev'rdeen, Faebreeze, chibi moon baby, rosierocks30, qiana, Kitty (internet hugs for all the regular, thoughtful reviewing), ladymagna1100, Izzy, Midnight Little One, Lorelai Love Spencer-Meraz, Enid-Barb, Harry Percy Lucy Katniss, allpoetry101, Gunnhildde, APieceOfPie4Everybody011, Jenny Felton (*waves*), Don't Trust the Silver Eyes, sammy (I will finish, have no fear), Honoria Granger, kimandjackKickinit, Icelynn._

_So… if you have a birthday coming up and want a birthday drabble (see my profile for an explanation) PM me. _

_I have two other fics I'm writing too. One of them is very nice. The other one is not nice at all but the person I'm co-writing it with is. You should read them too *big, hopeful smile*_

_And, of course, you know I thrill to your reviews._


	26. Chapter 26 - Astoria's Wedding

Astoria's father manages to overcome his horror at his daughter's very public shaming in order to give her away at her wedding; good girls simply don't get pregnant out of wedlock, not in their circles. That Narcissa Malfoy had cornered his wife and pointed out that snubbing a close friend of the future Minister was, perhaps, unwise surely had nothing to do with his agreement to walk her down that aisle. Nothing at all.

Mr. Greengrass – he was _not_ going to adopt this peculiar trend of using the old titles - also wasn't a fan of Greg Goyle, which didn't make this wedding any more palatable. The man might have rescued his daughter, giving her claim to respectability she surely didn't deserve, but he had been nearly a Death Eater and was quite possibly one of the stupidest men he'd ever met. That his daughter appears to actually love the blighter is one of life's mysteries and not one he intends to probe too deeply.

What, he wonders, had possessed her to fall into bed with Harry Potter anyway? And why, even if she were going to be blind to decency, had she also decided to neglect common sense in the form of simple contraceptive charm? Honestly, it was as if she'd meant to get pregnant. Maybe she and that idiot Goyle do deserve one another, he muses.

Daphne, at least, remains unsullied and thus available for strategic matchmaking. When he'd last seen her she'd been sitting in the hotel suite the women had commandeered with some mouse of a stylist piling her hair into some thing with curls dangling about her face, the head of the pregnant Mrs. Malfoy tipped in towards her as they shared some confidence or other. A cynical man might have suspected the scene had been staged as a near-perfect photo op, and Mr. Greengrass is nothing if not cynical. When had his daughters become friends with Draco Malfoy's mysteriously orphaned bride? He doesn't exactly object – the woman is clearly a political powerhouse and a discreet conversation with the elder Mr. – excuse him, 'Lord' – Parkinson has placed him firmly on her side in the upcoming election. Not, admittedly, that there's much choice. The young, apparently pure-blooded war heroine, wife to last remaining member of one of the oldest families in wizarding Britain versus some maniac who thinks he's a knight of the round table.

It's strange, he thinks, how no one else seems to be running. Even Percy Weasley has bowed out and endorsed the woman.

He wonders if Theodore Nott might be interested in Daphne. Sure, the man's a poof but he's close to that girl of Draco's and, damn it, he's missed out on the chance to get one daughter married off to someone powerful, someone useful. He doesn't want to risk Daphne falling in love with some cretin too.

Now, though, he's waiting to play his role in this little pageant, standing at the bar enjoying a drink while the girls get their hair done and the guests drift into seats. His wife's done a bang up job putting the event together; you'd never know she'd spent the last year alternating between dramatic sobs at her daughter's ruined state and huffing how _dare_ Narcissa Malfoy move in and push her out of her daughter's life, all the while refusing to talk to the girl. Women. He takes a swallow of the golden liquid in his glass and wishes, again, that the night, and with it this farce of a wedding, was already over.

. . . . . . . . .

Greg Goyle can't quite believe he's going to marry Astoria Greengrass. Tonight. He's going to marry her _tonight_. Somewhere, upstairs in this behemoth of a hotel, she's with Daphne and Hermione, getting dressed. She's putting on a wedding dress so she can marry _him._

He'd watched Astoria for years at school, feeling at first a bit like a creeper, because she was younger than he was, and then like a fool, because there was no way the beautiful and clever girl would ever look twice at him. He was just Draco Malfoy's sidekick, destined to be a soldier in an army no one had asked whether he wanted to join. He was no one special, no one impressive. Not like her.

Sometimes he feels like he's so happy he's going to die. This can't be real. He has Astoria who, for some unknown reason, loves him; he has a daughter he adores; he has the trust of the Dark Lady, something he certainly doesn't deserve after how he'd treated her when they were children. Life is really good, so much better than he'd ever expected it would be. Sometimes, he thinks, good things just happen.

He knows Astoria's father despises him. Hell, the man mostly despises her too; he's here because Narcissa Malfoy threatened him with something, who knows what, and so he's shown up, dressed properly, and is quietly getting pissed at the bar.

Greg hopes the man doesn't get so drunk he ruins Astoria's night. He's watching the man uneasily when Draco comes up behind him. "I'm already on it," the blond man murmurs. "If he upset Astoria tonight, Hermione would kill him and that might not play well in the press so I've cast a renewing sobriety charm on him. He won't be able to get drunk no matter how hard he tries." Draco evaluates the older man again. "And he's certainly trying."

"He hates me," Greg says, dully.

"So what?" Draco shrugs. "Hermione's already decided Daphne's going to take the Greengrass seat on the Wizengamot, and you're the only choice for the Goyles. He's out of power, out of touch. It's our turn now, Greg."

Greg looks at his friend; since they were children Draco has been a constant in his life and he trusts the other man's judgment. Now he's smirking at Mr. Greengrass, contempt for the older man evident in every line of his perfect posture. "Wanna rule the world with me, Greg?" he murmurs. "I've got a seat with your name on it in parliament and Hermione's already talking about cradle-betrothing our son to Alicia. Forget about Astoria's fool of a father; your grandson could be king."

"Yeah," Greg Goyle mutters, turning away from his future father-in-law. "Yeah, that sounds perfect."

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise Zabini isn't quite sure how he feels about weddings. He admires Astoria as she comes down the aisle; she's managed to lose the baby weight fast, he thinks, except for those breasts. Damn. And, he has to admit that she and Greg do look rather disgustingly adorable as they exchange vows. Funny how Greg managed to get the girl in the end, got her with love and everything. Merlin, he'd been a right nuisance the way he'd mooned about after her for years.

Still, though, weddings are fussy things, with relatives you don't like cluttering up every corner and catered food that always seems the same. The band is always too loud, the cake always prettier than it is tasty. He appreciates the open bar but he can afford his own alcohol so it's not like he can't drink what he wants when he wants it.

Luna looks gorgeous, of course. She's done that thing she's taken to doing where she layers dresses over one another. She's explained to him that the colors and patterns all have meaning and that she works to coordinate her choices on both an aesthetic and symbolic level. "It's like a puzzle," she'd said as he sat on the bed and admired her while she got ready. She's woven ambrosia and pink camellias into her hair and the colors frame her face and she wanders through the crowd. Trust Luna to combine what looks like a weed and a hothouse flower into one design.

He'd asked Luna what she thought of marriage as she'd pulled the third dress on and she'd sort of sighed and said, "I don't think it's a good idea if you're just looking for someone to complete you. No one can ever do that. You have to be your own person."

He'd dropped the subject and now, thinking about what she'd said, he finds this wedding unutterably depressing. He doesn't even want a _wedding_. He wants… her.

Hermione hands him a drink and surveys the crowd. He eyes her glass and she mutters, "It's sparkling water. Merlin, you people are a pain."

"Just looking out for you, Lady," he demurs and she rolls her eyes.

"Blaise," she frowns at him and he immediately focuses on her. "If I might give you a little piece of advice…"

"Yes?"

"Look up the flowers Luna has in her hair. I'd hate for her to give up and wander off because you just aren't paying attention."

He looks at her, eyes narrowed. She knows something, damn her, but clearly has no intention of telling him. "Hermione," he hisses but she only smiles at him.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theodore Nott glides across the dance floor, Pansy tucked into his arms. They've known each other so long they don't feel any need to talk and they fit into one another as only people who were forced to start partnering in dance lessons at the age of six can do. Weddings always lead to annoying speculations about who he plans to marry and one of the great things about Pansy is she knows it won't be her, doesn't even want it to be her.

"I'd rather date someone actually attracted to me, Theo," she'd said the last time the papers had paired them up as a romantic couple, "and, let's face it, you're not."

Tonight's been a trial. Astoria had opted for a huge wedding and every bloody unmarried girl in attendance had managed to snag a dance with him. Most of them had prattled on about how much they loved children, how sweet Æthel seemed, how the girl needed a mother. Subtle they weren't.

He'd love to see any one of these brainless, spineless idiots try to cope with Æthel. Or with him, for that matter.

He smiles for the photographer, one of several working the event, knowing he'll be paired with dear old Pans in the next edition of the society pages. The idea that the two of them would ever be a couple, much less get married, is absurd, no matter what the society page wants to print; they'd have to both need a marriage of convenience - and need it pretty badly - for _that_ to ever happen. Still, between Pansy and all the girls he's had to dance with tonight, he'd take Pansy. At least she doesn't have any romantic illusions about him; at least she can handle Æthel.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco brings the plate with the cake to Hermione; his own bride has settled into a chair at the edge of the room and he can tell by the expression on her face she's unusually displeased with him, or about him, or about something. Maybe it's just her feet. Maybe it's time to stop nagging her about the shoes.

"Cake, milady?" he hands her the plate and, with a quick signal to a hovering staff member, acquires a chair of his own and sits next to her. "A lovely event, no?"

Hermione shrugs and plunges her fork into the cake. "I suppose."

He looks at her; she's wearing the green silk bridesmaid dress, actual decorative grasses woven into a strange kind of tiara – Astoria was ridiculously literal in her wedding theme choices – and a sullen, grouchy frown. "What's the matter?"

She shrugs again and eats another bite of the tasteless cake. "This is terrible," she mutters, and sets the plate on a small table. She's barely pulled her hand away before a caterer whisks in and removes the slice and it's as if it had never been there.

"Well, I agree about the cake," Draco reaches a hand out to her, laces his fingers through hers, "but you looked miserable before you bit into it so I don't think that's the only thing that's bothering you." They sit for a bit before he adds, "Talk to me, Hermione. If you don't tell me what's wrong, I can't make it better."

She gives him a wan little smile at that. "I'd never been to one of these before, you know?"

"A wedding?" He doubts that. Who hasn't been to a wedding?

"A _pureblood_ wedding," she clarifies. "Well, I've been to a Weasley wedding but…"

"Not the same?"

"No."

"Well, they are interminably boring, I admit, and you've discovered the issue with caring more about how the cake looks than anything else, but I still don't see – "

"I took this from you," she cuts him off. "This is what your wedding should have been. Something big and fancy with flowers and decorations and… and you didn't get that because you married me. Because you married a mu – "

"If you say that word I may slap you." The threat startles both of them, and she snaps her head around.

"I'd like to see you try."

Draco tightens his grip on her hand. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just can't stand to hear you talk about yourself like that." He sighs and rubs his forehead with his free hand. "You know I'd never… I didn't want this… this wedding thing. Yes, I always assumed it's what I would have because it's all I knew but I don't care about it, didn't care about it. I got you, that's all that bloody well mattered. You think Greg cares about the colour scheme or the favors? He's just thrilled it's Astoria. And if you think Blaise and Luna are even going to _have_ a wedding, well, then there was something in that cake besides sugar and flour because we both know they'll just show up some day, having been married for months and months, and having forgotten to tell anyone. Luna will say something like, 'but I've been wearing yellow so I assumed you all knew.'"

Hermione laughs at that, a laugh that might be slightly choked with tears but, Draco thinks, a laugh.

"Let's go, sweetheart," he lets go of her and holds his hand out. At her look he says, "the shoes, hand them over. I have a room upstairs for us but maybe you'd like to walk there without pain?"

"My hero," she pulls off the shoes but holds them herself, uses his hand to help pull herself out of the chair. "Let's go."

He whispers something into her ear as they slip away and she tightens her grip on his hand. "And I you. So very much."

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N - **__Luna's flowers mean 'your love is reciprocated' and 'longing for you'. Yes, Blaise is being a tad dense._

_Thank you so much for all of the feedback and kind words people have sent me about this fic. I'm noticing people seem a tad worried I plan to kill off Æthel. *looks innocent* *rubs hands together evilly* _

_So… if you have a birthday coming up and want a birthday drabble (see my profile for an explanation) PM me. And I frequently waste time on twitter. /Colubrina__

_I have two other fics I'm writing as well. One of them is very nice. The other one is not nice at all but the person I'm co-writing it with is. You should read them too. *big, hopeful smile*_

_And, of course, you know I thrill to your reviews. _

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. If you were logged in I try to respond to each person but I'd like to publicly thank you all as well. Emmeebee, Dark D-Knight, jadedlady, aliciatanksley, LadiePhoenix007, Icelynne, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, dracosgirl007, ryggrad, LadyinRed, Kitty, AnnaxVakarian, JennyFelton (hi!), Pank98, GTH, JoeNobody, Analena, pagyn, pinklights, Ramyfan, Honoria Granger, FaeBreeze, batcat4eternity, hoshiakari7, chibi moon baby, Midnight Little One, SopranoandBass, aoe123, Oliver1996, kei, rosierocks30, toobadIcan'twrite, Guest, Chester99, wintergirlsmith, Artemisgodess, Jasmine 'Jazz' Venn, Grovek26, PrincessJazmine, Lorelei Love Spencer-Meraz, dulce de leche go, Fairy Maiden (thank you!), Delancey654, Maddy (wow – thank you!), Mmm Remus, love bleeds red, AmandaxxPlease, Mandi Blanche, Eternal Glade, furface294, Marion Hood, bubblecloudz, blah blah-yeah and several Guests. (And you, you know who you are who reviewed every chapter – thank you for all your in depth feedback. I'd respond via PM but, well, I can't because you're a guest. I do value all the time you've taken and all your thoughts.)_


	27. Chapter 27 - Ron and Blaise have Plans

Draco hesitates before telling her the news. "She's dead," he finally says.

"Who?" Hermione looks up at him from the breakfast table, tea in her hand and hostility in her eyes. She's started throwing up again in the mornings and it occurs to Draco, maybe too late, that this might not have been the best timing, maybe he should have waited until the afternoon.

"Ginny Weasley. She was found dead. A bit ago, actually, but they're finally releasing the information. She apparently choked to death on her own vomit after drinking a tad much."

Hermione shrugs and takes a sip of the peppermint tea that is supposed to calm her stomach; it so far has failed to manage to do this, and some days it has failed fairly spectacularly, but she keeps hoping.

"You…you're all right?" he asks.

"Am I supposed to pretend to be torn up that an old school chum died?" Hermione looks at him. "She hasn't spoken to me in years, totally bought into the claim that I was a horrible bitch who used and abandoned her precious brother, and I engineered her death. Don't you think acting sad would be a trifle hypocritical?"

Draco's lips twitch up in a smile. "I sometimes forget how evil and vindictive you really are."

"I'll act appropriately distraught if asked about it in public."

"Do that." He hands her a plate with some toast and she stares at it glumly; she'd thought she was done with morning sickness. No wonder Narcissa had stopped after one.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo leans up against the doorway, Æthel's first letter from Hogwarts in his hand. Hermione thinks she might throttle him; he knows what she's waiting to hear and he's dragging this out just to torture her.

"Everything's going well," he says. "She had a good trip on the train," he says. "People knew who she was, of course, but she found a couple of kids who didn't give her a hard time about it."

"Really?" Hermione says through gritted teeth from her place on the couch. "That's great."

"She managed not to lose FluffyButt," Theo continues, "which, given how that cat seems to specialize in disappearing, might be proof miracles really do happen."

"FluffyButt?" Draco snickers. He's been going through the most recent reports on both the informal election polling Blaise has been doing through the underground and the increasing interest on installing Hermione as, well, not "Minister for Life" but as queen. Regent. He likes to think of it as regent but, technically, until the baby is born, that might be tricky to pull off.

"She's eleven," Theo looks at the other man. "What'd you expect her to name the cat? Bast?"

"Frankly, yes."

"Theo," Hermione keeps a smile pasted on her face. "How was everything else?"

"Well, she doesn't care for one of her roommates. Apparently the girl can't quite decide whether she should suck up to Lady Nott or dismiss the Death Eater orphan but she thinks the other girls in their room are fine." Theo leaves his doorway and settles down on a chair, props his feet on a low table and lounges insouciantly, regarding Hermione as he closes up Æthel's letter and prepares to put it away. "All in all, I'd say a good first letter. She's adjusting well - "

"Theo," Hermione wails.

"What?" he looks at her. "Is something bothering you? Some kind of weird pregnancy thing? Or it is one of the wonder twins causing trouble? I can't do much about the baby growing stuff, but, if it's the latter, just say the word, Lady, and I'd be honored to take care of them for you."

Draco smothers a cough.

"I can do it fast, I can do it slow, but, I assure you, ridding the world of either of those two would..."

"Theodore." This time she sounds like she's warning him and he gives her an innocent look.

"Have I offended you in some way, Lady?" He moves as if he were going to lower himself to his knees in medieval supplication before her and she actually growls.

"Which _house_, Theo? Which house was she sorted into?"

"Oh, that." He settles back into his seat and smiles at her, his mischievous, slightly evil smile. "Was there really any doubt?"

"Theo!" It's an actual wail and by this point Draco has his hands over his mouth to muffle his snickers. He always enjoys seeing Hermione in her role as harassed little sister instead of poised politician.

After pretending to be confused to stretch out his teasing even longer, Theo finally laughs and relents. "Slytherin. She said they didn't even get the hat all the way onto her head before she was sorted."

"That's my girl," Draco gets up, sounding pleased and smug. "Should we open a bottle of champagne to celebrate?"

Hermione puts on an only partially feigned pout at the news and huffs. "Sparkling water for me, dammit. And I was hoping for Gryffindor."

Both men nearly choke on their laughs and Draco, halfway towards the cabinet with the glasses, turns to look at her. "You have _met_ your niece, right?"

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise and Theo had fussed and worried and strategized and finally – finally – they'd found what they both agree is the perfect venue for Hermione's first 'barroom chat.' They plan to have her do these every few weeks until the election, giving the 'common people' a chance to directly ask her questions in an informal setting.

Not that there aren't reporters there, of course. They have their own, plus who knows how many who will simply show up. The little pub they've selected will only seat a few people, though, so it's important that they can get the transcript out. They'd considered larger spaces but had decided, after much debate, that keeping the discussion intimate was more important than reaching a larger audience in person.

Now they've set her up on a small dais at one end of the room. She's settled herself back into an arm chair, apologizing to the waitress for how she needs the soft chair but that sitting in hard back chairs for long periods of time has just become too difficult and, well, her midwife wants her to avoid it. The waitress fawns over her, bringing her both still and sparkling water and asking if she'd like a plate of cookies the kitchen had made just for her.

Hermione isn't tactless enough to say no even though the very thought of sweets makes her stomach churn. Instead she asks the woman how many children she has, what did she think about pregnancy, wasn't the ban on cheese just ridiculous?

People slip in, settle around tables in the small restaurant, sit down at the bar. Promptly at 2:00 Theo steps to the front of her little stage and says, "Thank you all for coming. As you know, my…" he pauses, then starts up again, "My friend Hermione Granger-Malfoy is running for Minister of Magic and it's my great pleasure to introduce her to you today. I don't think her background needs repeating; everyone knows of her work during the war. Fewer people may know that since then, rather than living the high life, she's been working a simple job at the Ministry and volunteering at the Phoenix Orphanage. And, of course, she's married to one of my best friends and they're expecting their first child." He calls back to the rear of the room, "I expect to be asked to be godfather, Draco," and everyone laughs.

"We want to keep this event informal – it's your chance to ask her anything that interests you and hear her answer instead of getting what, in any campaign, inevitably turns into packaged responses no matter how we try to avoid that. So… with no more tedious blather from me, let me turn the floor over to you, all of you. We've set up a podium for people to stand at when they ask questions so there's no stress about who's next but, don't worry, everyone who wants to will get a chance to ask the lady their question."

Theo points out the podium, a line three people deep already in place behind it, and settles into a seat near Hermione. Blaise and Draco stand at the back of the room with Marcus, who's watching for any signs of trouble. They don't expect any but it can't hurt to be over-prepared.

"Do you think that latent prejudice is hurting your campaign?" asks the first person, a short woman with bad teeth and an expensive scarf.

Hermione sighs and Draco tries not to smirk. They haven't even seeded the audience and she's still getting the questions they want most.

"I know we just fought a war that nominally centered around blood status," Hermione rubs her stomach and Draco smiles, thinking of how they'd practiced that sweet, apparently unconscious move, at home. "But I think – I'd like to think – we've all moved on from that. I certainly hope that no one is voting for me, or not voting for me, because of my birth. I'd much rather be hated for my ideas, wouldn't you?"

The next person – a weedy boy who doesn't look old enough to have graduated school yet – steps up. "What really happened with you and Ron Weasley?"

Draco tenses at that one.

Hermione, however, laughs. "I had such a horrible crush on him in school. Who here remembers their first crush? How he was perfect, no matter how terrible his table manners or how he ignored you? How you'd do his homework to get him to look at you?" An easy laugh, one that echoes hers, ripples from one woman to another across the room as they all remember that boy, the one who they'd tried to work up the courage to talk to at fourteen. He was the one who'd only noticed the Quidditch star, or the beauty, or the popular girl, some girl who, inevitably, wasn't them. "Let me tell you, sometimes when you actually get to date that crush, it doesn't work out that well."

Another knowing laugh from the women in the room, along with a smile from the boy who'd asked the question.

"I mean," Hermione looks so very sincere, "I won't say a thing against Ron. It turned out that we didn't really have anything in common and I'm not at all sorry it ended because if I hadn't been single I wouldn't have reconnected with Draco Malfoy and wouldn't be married to a man I adore. But Ron's a… he was a really good man in the war. We couldn't have done it without him and nothing that's happened since can ever change that."

Blaise looks at Draco and mouths, "You were worried?" Draco grimaces. He hadn't been worried, exactly, though he's impressed she managed to belittle his post-war activities all while seemingly praising the man. The jab about the man's table manners had been a nice touch. Still, he hates Ron, hates hearing her talk about him.

The event goes on, Hermione answering questions about economics, about the orphanage, about what she plans to name her baby ("We haven't even told the grandmother, so I'm going to have to pass that one."). She gets people to laugh, charms an elderly man who insists a new mother shouldn't have a job, flirts outrageously with a toddler who gives her his biscuit. When it's clear that people are starting to ask second and third questions, making up anything just to get a chance to have her focused on them again – Blaise congratulates himself on the efficacy of his rabbit spell – Theo steps up and announces that they'll do one more question before calling it a day.

"Are you Nimue?" a little girl asks.

Hermione waves her up to the dais and smiles at the girl, leans forward to whisper to her, a whisper that carries through the suddenly silent room. "Only if you want me to be."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Blaise," Theo sits at the table, surrounded by books, muggle and wizard, and he's been getting more and more worried the more he reads.

"What?"

"Do you ever wonder if setting the Nimue legend in motion was a good idea?" Theo closes up the book in front of him and pushes it away. "Most magic, it's… we skim the surface. We turn a mouse to a cup and back again; we wash dishes without having to get our hands wet. We don't do anything _real._"

"That would be one of my issues with the current set up, yes," Blaise still hasn't looked up from his Quidditch magazine. Two months out from the election and he's feeling fairly confident they have this.

"There's a _reason_ we don't plumb the depths," Theo continues, trying to get the other man to pay attention to him. "Even things like the little spell you did with the rabbit, that kind of work just dives down a few feet at most. And that's considered dark magic, dangerous, totally forbidden."

"You're really still just listing off the reasons I'm happy with our lovely Lady. If we want to be able to protect ourselves from a hoards of muggles around us we need to actually use our resources."

"You aren't listening," Theo frowns and taps his fingers on the table. "Let me extend the metaphor a bit. If most of what we learn just skims the top of the water, and the things we've been doing on the sly go down under the surface just a tad, what if there are rip tides that could pull us out, pull us under? Blaise, how far down does the magic go?"

The other man finally looked up. "What are you getting at, and what does this have to do with Nimue?"

"Magic is… it's the magician working his will, right? Will made manifest?"

"If you say so." Blaise has never been especially interested in abstract theory; he just wants to know 'does it work' and 'how do I do it'.

"We make our gods, we make them powerful, and we do it with our belief, Blaise, and we're convincing an entire nation of magicians that Hermione Granger is Nimue, a powerful and untamable figure out of history. Thousands of people who regularly use their will to change the world in all sorts of trivial, magical ways, all focusing that will, that belief, on one woman. Doesn't that strike you as… risky? What if we're tapping into things we can't control? Elemental things, things that have nothing to do with wand waving and doing the dishes?

"If that's the case," Blaise says, going back to his magazine, "then I'm glad she's on our side."

That's the problem, Theo thinks. I'm pretty sure Hermione Granger is on our side. What lurks in the depths? Nimue? That I'm not so sure about.

. . . . . . . . .

The pamphlets begin to arrive via owl, laying out the details of the Ministry's economic scandals. They're professional and tidy - Luna's printing skills are quite good - and it doesn't take long for everyone to have one. Most people already know about the orphanage accounting scandal but the _Daily Prophet_ had left out the issue with the farm contracts. That the government had thrown food aid money - or rather had promised farm contracts to grow food destined for food aid - to people willing to wait for the returns from the ill-fated international investments comes as news to most people. Unwelcome news.

No one's even surprised to see Kingsley Shacklebolt's name attached to the scandal. "Internal memos reveal" the pamphlet reads, and "personally signed off on the deal." The man denies all connection, of course, but not everyone believes him. Some do, of course, but not all.

What really gets people talking isn't the economic scandal. Even broken down into digestible bits, the ins and outs of money skimmed from over here into that budget there with double bookkeeping and then invested all the way over there are, bluntly, esoteric; not everyone's a policy wonk. That the Ministry stole money, however, stole it from food aid budgets and from war orphans, that people were on the take up and down the whole line of the scandal, that people could follow. Even if they can't quite understand how the debased coinage they read about has led to more expensive produce. they read that their government is directly responsible for higher prices, for their increasingly difficult circumstances, and they believe it.

It helps, as Hermione has been known to say, that it's all true.

No, while the economic complexity remain the part of the equation people nod about, agree with their friends that it's truly a scandal, it's not the message that people really take away from Luna's little pamphlets. What they take away is that their government is corrupt. They take away that the current Wizengamot looked the other way. They take away that the Order of the Phoenix can't be trusted, that they aren't only decadent but that they are also thieves. Every society page spread showing a member of the Order drinking, partying, dressed up becomes a piece of evidence against them. They can afford that, people say, because they stole from us.

"I knew," one woman would say to her friends at a book club, "that they'd seized some Death Eater properties, but I had no idea how much they'd taken, taken from ordinary people."

"Even those seizures," someone would respond, "so unfair. It's one thing to tax people to pay for a war but reparations that go so far they actually cripple an economy? So a few people can drink champagne? That's not reasonable."

Slowly popular sentiment shifts and people grow to believe the Notts, the Malfoys, the Parkinsons - all the old families - had been unfairly penalized at the end of the war. "Lucius Malfoy died in prison," a man would say. "He paid for his crimes. Why should Ronald Weasley get to drink away the results of generations of honest work just because one man was a criminal? Why shouldn't that money be used to employ people? To invest in other businesses?" The charts that Luna has neatly laid out showing the costs of the war, the values of the seized assets, and the dramatic difference between the two convince more and more people that the government robbed not just the poor but also the rich.

"Theft is theft," a shopkeeper says to her customers, "whether you steal from a poor child or a rich magnate. It's still wrong."

Hermione watches the popular opinion as it changes to support returning estates to the wealthy, as more and more people say that's the only fair thing to do; she and Daphne smile at one another as they look over the results of each of Blaise's surveys of the underground.

"We're winning," Daphne breathes one day, looking at Hermione in awe. "You've convinced people who clean houses for a living that it's just right and fair and moral that all our vaults be returned to us, that our estates be returned."

"No one," Hermione doesn't even look up from her desk, "likes to think of herself as poor, or even middle class. Everyone believes she is just a temporarily embarrassed millionaire and that mistaken belief makes people malleable to tax policy that really only benefits the wealthy, meaning you. Throw in a gloss of moral righteousness and people will argue against their own economic self-interest with remarkable fervor."

"You," Draco says, wrapping his arms around her at night, "are amazing."

"We planned it together," she replies, running her fingers through his hair, watching the way each strand is almost translucent, how they layer on each other to be that amazing white blond. "Just two more months and the election part of our little coup will be over and then the real work begins."

"Work?" he asks with a smirk.

"Work, fun," she shrugs. "Call it whichever you like. The economics is just the beginning. What we really need is for people to distrust the current system of government."

"Distrust it so thoroughly," he smiles at her, a cold, cold smile, "that they'd prefer a queen."

"A benevolent dictatorship is, after all, the most efficient form of government," she says smugly.

"As long as you're the dictator?"

"Of course."

He leans in to kiss her, his mouth leaving a trail along her jaw and down her neck. "You'll make a very sexy queen," he murmurs into her shoulder as he begins to loosen the tie of her wrap dress.

"And you, my sweet," she says, helping him get her out of her clothes, "will make a most desirable power behind the throne."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Look," Ron frowns at Harry as he sets out the pages he's collected. "She's got her fingers in the Prophet. That same photographer who shot me pushing her? That guy did her wedding, the party with the orphan, even the orphan expose."

"That ran without a byline," Harry objects, but he's running his eyes over the evidence Ron's gathered with an increasingly grim line to his mouth.

"I had to do a little digging, by which I mean lying," Ron admits. "I called the paper and said I represented an agency interested in nominating that photographer for an award for excellence in investigative journalism. They told me without any hesitation. It's the same guy."

"The limericks," Harry looks up at Ron.

"I don't know, but I wouldn't be surprised. You overheard those snakes going on and then I thought about that bitch flipping you off when Astoria did her little reveal. She knew, Harry. She knew. The orphanage? How much do you want to bet she's only interested in that place because it let her discredit my mother? She's trying to strip everything from us. Her and Malfoy."

Harry slumps in his chair, his temporary interest already waning. Harry's broken. Too broken, maybe, Ron thinks to be able to really help him with this but that's okay. Ever since Ginny died Harry's spent most of his days staring at the walls. He'll eat if you put food in front of him, answer if you talk to him, but he's crawled away to somewhere deep inside himself and isn't really trying anymore.

"Do you really think Ginny is... her fault?" Harry hesitates. That's all he really cares about, now. Let Hermione marry that ferret and bear his brats. Let her be Minister. Hell, let her be queen if that's what she wants. Just so long as she pays for Ginny's death. He looks up at Ron. "Is it her fault?"

"It is," the red head says, his best mate. Hermione had been his best friend, the one he could lean on, but somehow that had gone away, she had gone away, and he'd stopped trying. He didn't care anymore. It was too hard to try.

"What do you want to do?" he asks, dropping the papers back to the table. Ron's drawn all these lines, all these plots. Maybe he's right. "Stop her from getting elected?"

"I don't care about her run for Minister." Ron shakes his head. "Let her play her political games. I want to take away everything she cares about. The niece, the husband, the 'brother', the baby."

"Okay," Harry says, staring down. When did Hermione become the enemy? He's not even sure, but if she's responsible for Ginny's death - Ron says she is and Ron had loved Hermione once so he wouldn't lie about that – then she has to pay.

. . . . . . . . .

"Tell me something I don't know about you," Draco has his arms wrapped around Hermione as she stands at their sink, drying dishes. She still insists doing dishes is soothing, a plebian task that horrifies Theo whenever he sees her do it.

"I want cheese more than might be healthy," she smiles as she puts another cup away.

"I knew that," he leans in to kiss her neck, breathing in the way she smells. Shampoo, yes, but also something that is only hers. "Try again."

"You do this thing with your tongue that I really quite like." She is actually snuggling back into him and his fondness for what Hermione is like pregnant continues to grow, along with other things. The mornings are rough again, but her insatiable appetite for all things, well, him has been a wholly unexpected part of this experience. Delightful, but unexpected.

Also, as conversations with Greg have confirmed, not universal.

"You are one lucky bastard," was all the man had said.

"I," Draco said, running the tongue in question along the edge of her earlobe, "would have had to have been blind to have not noticed that. So, I'm afraid that still doesn't count."

"Kicking," she says and he's totally confused until she turns and puts his hand on her belly. "Feel the kicking."

He puts his hand over her and there's the faintest push back, a series of staccato hits tapping against him and he stares in wonder at his hand, at her.

"Our son," he breathes.

"That's him," she agrees, then, with a grin, "Or her. Does that count as a thing you didn't know?"

But Draco is too enchanted to respond.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise looks at the flowers he's assembled. He feels like a bit of a total arse but... he's already in for far more than a penny. Primroses. Orange blossoms. Spider flowers, which had been almost impossible to find but which the book _had sworn_ meant 'elope with me.'

He inhales and knocks on the door of Luna's flat.

. . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N - **__Thank you so much for all of the feedback; I do take things people point out into consideration as I outline the details of the next chapters so it's really great to hear what people think. _

_I have two other fics I'm writing as well. One of them is rather sweet, assuming you're okay with threesomes. The other one is not sweet at all but the person with whom I'm co-writing it is. You should read them too. Plus, there's the birthday drabbles._

_And, of course, you know I thrill to your reviews, more than is probably psychologically healthy. _

_Thank you to everyone who was so kind as to review since I last posted: Mel, LyraDragonfly (there's no real gender based discrimination, in my mental conception of the whole thing, because she's basically eliminated any other viable options in the election and left people no choice), Marion Hood, S Wright, my name is mommy, LadiePhoenix007, Jenny Felton (my twitter buddy), Kou Shun'u (many, many times), ryggrad, Chester99, FaeBreeze, rosierocks30, Chameleon-Bookworm, Grovek26, JoeNobody, pagyn, AnnaxVakarian, xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, moriah, Honoria Granger, Lorelei Love Spencer-Meraz, jadedlady, Pank98, Ramyfan, hoshiakari30, alettdipollo, ladymagna1100, Icelynne, Analena, chibi moon baby, plus all the lovely Guests._


	28. Chapter 28 - Old Slurs and Prejudices

"What's that?" Arthur looks at the badge George has shoved into his pocket.

"I joined a service organization," the younger man responds. "Knights of the Lady."

Arthur Weasley looks at his son, confused. "Why not just stick with the Order?"

George snorts with some disgust; his father is a sweet man but he has no idea what the secret society he joined in his own youth has turned into. "I said 'service organization', not 'party frat'. I don't need help to have fun but it's nice to belong to a group that can coordinate efforts to help those poor kids and do… stuff." He fishes the badge back out and hands it to his father. The simple line drawing of a woman emerging from water, a sword held above her head, seems to almost float above the stiff fabric.

Arthur looks at the graphic with his brow furrowed. It reminds him of something but he's not quite sure what. "What do you all do?"

George shrugs. "We're repainting the inside of the orphanage right now and next week we're going to start building a playground." He pauses, somewhat uncomfortably, then adds, "Dad, I know Mum's the head of the Board but... you guys didn't know how bad the conditions were there, right? Or about the way the funds were getting diverted?"

Arthur shifts and scratches the back of his head before saying, "I've never actually been inside the place." The statement has the virtue of being factually true, if little else. "Who's the 'Lady'" he asks, expecting George to laugh and say it's just a moniker they've assembled under, a little romantic medieval colour to dress up their charity group. Instead, George's face becomes carefully neutral.

"I can't tell you that," is all he says and, as he did when he saw the badge, Arthur feels a twinge of unease.

. . . . . . . . .

"Are you really thinking of cradle-betrothing the baby to Alicia?" Draco traces his fingers up Hermione's hip as they lie in bed, memorizing the endlessly wonderful changes in her figure.

She rolls towards him and balances herself on that hip and her belly before shrugging. "If he's a boy."

"It'll be a boy," Draco says, with a laugh. No one but her bothers to question the baby's sex; Malfoys always have sons. Of course, if she pops out a daughter she'll never let him forget it, not when the baby is little, not when they send her off to Hogwarts, not when they settle a crown on her pretty head. He still thinks it'll be a boy though.

"It's mostly political, of course, binding the Greengrasses and the Goyles to us. I'm pretty sure Astoria knows about… me." Draco raises his eyebrows and Hermione sighs. "The muggle-born thing."

"Oh."

"I know Daphne knows." She frowns. "Greg's the one who might be a problem; he's fairly narrow-minded in that area. Tying them to us, making his daughter a potential queen, should work to alleviate any hissy fit he might throw upon learning I'm not _quite_ what he thinks."

"You've decided you want the whole inner circle to know?"

"Eventually, yes. Anyone who can't handle it will have to be… dealt with. Once I'm elected we don't need to play the blood status card, we'll have moved on to Nimue. The masses can keep debating what I am, but the people we trust to run things? We need to know they won't turn on us in some misguided bout of blood purity ideology. No internal coups of our coup."

Draco nods.

"And, of course, if the kids hate each other, or, well, more importantly, if it becomes politically inexpedient, we just dissolve the engagement. But… I'd like to be able to pull Harry's bloodline back into power. Even if we have to… deal with him… I'd like to honor his memory that way. If we can."

"As long as it's expedient?"

"Well, yes."

"You could also just put her on the Wizengamot."

Hermione looks at him, amused. "She can't even sit up yet."

Draco shrugs. "Daphne takes the Greengrass seat, Astoria sits in as regent for her daughter, the sole remaining Potter." Getting regency as a custom established suits him just fine. "And you can still marry them off if you want to."

. . . . . . . . . .

Ron stands in the kitchen, feeling awkward and angry and determined all at once. Since Ginny's death his mother has been cooking with unrelenting fervor. She's made casseroles, cakes, breads, soups. She stirs and chops and kneads as though every punch of her fist into bread dough might bring her daughter back. "I don't even know what to do with it all," she says, without turning around. "I've given things to everyone in your father's department. I've fed Harry. I've fed George. I've sent cookies to Charlie and Bill, and Fleur doesn't even like my cooking."

"She does, mum," Ron murmurs. "She does."

"I just can't stop. I can't... I can't stop." She measures nuts into the batter she's been stirring and brushes her hair out of her face.

"Mum," Ron begins, then stops. He's not sure if she'll believe him. He knows he sounds a bit like some daft conspiracy theorist.

"What is it, Ronald," she snaps, then sighs. "I'm sorry."

"I don't think Ginny died by accident," he says.

Molly Weasley stiffens at the counter. "I will not listen to any accusation that she committed..."

"No!" Ron interrupts her, shocked. "I think she was murdered, or as good as."

Molly turns around, her wooden spoon still in her hand. "What do you mean?" A blob of batter falls from her spoon to the floor with a loud splat but she doesn't even look down.

"I think Hermione deliberately drove her to it." He hurries on before she can stop him, before she can mutter how that's not possible. "I'm not sure how, but I think she knew about Astoria - I know she did - and she somehow used that to push Ginny over the brink." He stops, then adds again, hopelessly, "I don't think it was an accident."

Molly stands there, holding her spoon out as first one, then two, more globs of batter fall to the floor. Finally, she says, "I wouldn't put it past her. She's lied to Percy about you, she's hiding behind that ridiculous story she's a pureblood to be Minister. She's married that Death Eater and now she's..."

"Just like him," Ron finishes.

"Can you prove it?" Molly turns back to her bowl, practicality bubbling to the top of her thoughts. Obviously, anyone who hurt Ginny - who even tried to hurt Ginny - needs to be taken care of. This isn't a war, though. She can't just strike the wretched girl down in the street.

"I can't," Ron says. "We can't send her to trial. Nothing like that."

"Then we have to use other methods," Molly stirs with brutal vigor.

"That's what Harry and I were thinking," Ron says. "Let me put on some water for tea and I'll tell you what I'm - what we're - planning."

. . . . . . . . . .

No one would call the marches in the streets 'riots', though several people note the presence of Aurors, discreetly standing towards the sides. Fewer people see Marcus Flint, stalking along the edge of the crowd and getting a feel for the dynamics, how people move, what muttered insults get the biggest response.

The placards are mostly polite. '_Change_' they read, and '_Traditional Values'_. Some of them have a phoenix roasting on a spit. Marcus notices the Aurors quietly confiscate those; he reminds himself to tell Pansy to get more of those made up for the next protest. He'd love to see scores of people carrying those, and maybe some with the sigil of the Lady.

A protest march, Marcus thinks to himself, turns out to be very much like a Quidditch match. There are patterns to the way people act, the way groups move. He wants to figure them out, to understand them, to figure out the levers he can use to move people one way or the other so when the Lady calls for violence he can deliver it with precision.

. . . . . . . . . . .

When Ron saunters up to his newest ladybird's flat he isn't expecting to get slapped. He's thinking about how much he enjoys her, how stunning she is, and so when she opens her door, glares at him, and hits him before shutting the door with a long bang he's genuinely flabbergasted. He'd thought things had been going so well. Apparently not.

Well, there were more fish in the sea, always. More fish in his sea, certainly, so off to the flat of another prime article. Sure, she doesn't speak much English but he isn't with her for her conversational skills, he thinks to himself with a smirk.

She, at least, doesn't slap him but she does slam the door on him without any explanation.

Maybe, he thinks, the stars are aligned against me tonight. Maybe I should just go to the pub and get a drink, sans lady friend.

At the pub - one of his favorites - he keeps getting the feeling that people are looking at him as he leans up against the bar and orders a pint. "Nice work, man" one scruffy looking bloke hits him on the arm and chuckles and he looks at the man, perplexed. He sees a table of three other men, so young he wonders how it is they've already graduated school, and they point at him and he thinks to himself that this feels different. He's used to people asking if he's really Ron Weasley, if he's really Harry Potter's best friend, did he really help kill Voldemorte. He's used to being asked to sign napkins, to pose for pictures. He's gotten used to being gracious about it; hell, he loves being gracious about it, pretending the fame - the fame he loves so very much - is a bit of a burden but he's still going to be courteous to his fans.

This doesn't feel like fans. This feels like a group of schoolboys laughing behind their hands at him. For all there seems to be a certain leering admiration from some people, like the man who high fives him on the way to the loo, all those people seem a bit seedy, a bit crude. Where are the pretty girls who want to run back to their mates and tell them 'Ron Weasley said hi to me'? Where are the free drinks sent over by older women, still grateful he'd saved their children, saved their friends.

He finally figures out what's going on when the barmaid, a nasty gleam in her eye, hands him a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ without speaking. There's a photo spread featuring… him. "Ron Weasley - Our Phoenix King?" reads the title and every picture shows him caught _in flagrante delicto_, black bars across his bits but most certainly not across his face, or the faces of the women he's with.

Well, he thinks, I guess that explains the slammed doors and the slap.

The only text the paper has run with the pictures asks whether this is the behavior we expect from our heroes. Shouldn't we embrace older values, the paper asks.

He looks at the name of the photographer and isn't surprised to see who it is.

This, this public ridicule - and with it the loss of his pretty little birds - this is Hermione's fault too.

. . . . . . . . . . .

"I'd like to meet up with our core team this weekend," Hermione is rubbing at her pelvis, which has started to ache in a way she can't quite call pain but which certainly isn't pleasant either. "Go over the post-election plans."

"Can't," Draco looks up from his reports. "I mean, you can meet with me and Theo if you want, but Blaise is out of town."

Hermione squinches up her nose and looks at him. "Really? Where'd he go?"

"Gretna Green."

"No!" Hermione breathes out and almost claps her hands. "They didn't!"

"Apparently they did," Draco grins at her. "Who knew Luna was such a traditionalist. It's a secret, or I think it is." He frowns for a moment. "Hard to be wholly sure with her."

"I promise to be properly surprised when she tells me."

"If she tells you," Draco goes back to his reading. "She might forget."

. . . . . . . . . .

"Lady! Lady Malfoy!" Hermione turns and looks at the reporter who's following her. This isn't one of hers and she's tired, her feet hurt and, she muses, politics is a harsh mistress. When I'm queen of the bloody world, she thinks, I'll let the boys play with people who accost me on the street. That'll make everything think twice about stopping me to ask me their idiotic questions.

Of course, she's not queen of the world yet; she's just a grouchy, pregnant woman so, as much as she'd like to, she can't just torture people who annoy her. Draco stands next to her, her devoted husband, a man she's come, against all expectations, to see as a partner in more than just their devious plans. Funny, she thinks, how he looks like the most patient, placid political spouse; so many people see a shark and mistakenly think he's a gold fish because he's learned patience, because he stands half a step behind her. The more fools, they.

Of course, if they've laid their plans well, Ron and Harry probably see him more as a puppet master, which is equally hilarious. Still, it should keep them from being able to muster any cohesive force against her until it's too late.

"Yes," she smiles at the reporter, "Can I help you?"

"I wondered if you had a statement about the orphanage, as a candidate I mean?" the woman has her writing pad out and is eager to get, what? A scoop? Does this woman think I'm going to say _anything _unexpected, Hermione wonders.

"If you don't mind," she puts on her sad face, "I'd like to respond both as a candidate and as a woman about to have a child and, of course, as an aunt."

"Please do," the reporter nearly quivers in her excitement at getting something good.

"As a candidate let me assure you that, were I to be elected, I would pursue this matter to the full extent of the law. While it can look like a complicated issue on the surface, and there are, certainly, layers of economic malfeasance we'll need to peel back, the core of the problem is theft. Someone, or someones, apparently thought it was acceptable to steal from the neediest of our society. I think we all were taught as very young children that stealing is wrong and it remains wrong no matter how much bureaucratic language you use to dress it up."

The woman is frantically writing and Hermione pauses and leans up against Draco while putting a hand on her ever-enlarging bump; Draco puts a reassuring hand on her shoulder and they stand there together.

"Would you sentence the current Minister to prison?" the woman asks.

"I believe," Hermione looks serious, "that trials and sentences are the purview of the Wizengamot, but, again, let me be very blunt here. If evidence suggests you stole from orphans, you need to go to trial, whether you are a street-sweeper or the Minister of Magic." She takes a breath and adds, "As a woman about to become a mother I may be over emotionally invested in the protection of children, but, it seems to me, a culture that abandons its youngest and most vulnerable members is a culture in the verge of committing suicide. We need to take a long, hard look at what we want to preserve in our customs, at what new habits should be discarded, at what older ways should be revitalized."

A small crowd has gathered around them and someone mutters, "Damn right." Hermione wonders if the speaker is one of Theo's plants or whether the disgusted exclamation is wholly spontaneous. It's become harder and harder to tell how much of the popular discontent is something they have a direct hand in; still, she makes a mental note to praise Theo. He'll just laugh at her, of course, but she knows that, as much as he tries to avoid it, he's as caught up in their little medieval pageant as the simplest peasant and it will please him to be formally acknowledged by his Lady.

"And, more," Hermione continues, "I feel personally connected to the orphanage, of course, not only because of my volunteer work there but because my niece, Æthel, spent so many years there."

"She's not your niece," Ron's joined the growing crowd. His disparaging comment carries through a lull in the noise and Hermione doesn't even try to control the irritation that dances across her face. "You're nothing but a muggle-born; stop trying to pretend you're some kind of pureblood. You're not."

There's a gasp from someone and Hermione sighs. "Surely you've had people in your life, Ron, that were honorary aunts and uncles to you? If Æthel calls me 'Aunt 'Mione' I feel fairly comfortable calling her my niece no matter who her, or my, parents were." She rubs her belly and then adds, "She's a little girl who's never had family until recently so you can hardly blame her for wanting to bring as many people into her circle as she can; not all of us have loving parents and a house filled with siblings. I really wish you wouldn't take your personal animosity against me out on a child who's just starting her first year at school."

"Leave her alone, you Phoenix scum," a voice hisses from somewhere in the back.

"I thought caring about blood status was what Death Eaters did," another voice mutters. "Some of us judge people on their accomplishments and character, not their ancestry."

"Like Draco Malfoy would have married a mudblood." The crowd stills at that and people look from face to face, telegraphing both their agreement with the sentiment and their unhappiness with the wording. The post-war social compact – that one simply doesn't talk about blood-status as if it mattered – has been broken twice, once by Ron Weasley and once by some anonymous speaker and no one is quite sure what to do.

Hermione raises her hand and said, "If I might?" and everyone turns to look at her. "I think we can all agree that the scandal around the orphanage is extremely upsetting and that none of us want those children to suffer. It would be the culmination of one of my dearest wishes if every child in that institution were to find a loving home. I know…" she let her voice break a little bit, " I know that there are people with love to offer. I'd rather we focus on that instead of on slurs and old prejudices."

Draco leans forward a bit and says, to the reporter, "if you don't mind, I want to get my wife home and off her feet."

Appropriate demurrals are made, people wish them both luck as they pass through the crowd. Draco looks adoring and Hermione looks gracious and poised until they close the door behind them and look at each other in the safety of their own flat.

"You are so brilliant," he laughs. "_'Let's not focus on slurs and old prejudices_.'"

"Ron," she's pulling off her shoes as she talks, "is the gift that keeps on giving."

"Still," Draco says, "I look forward to the day he's _my_ gift."

"You are remarkably bloodthirsty."

"It's why you adore me," he scoffs before he pulls her against him, before he tucks her next words away with the things he cherishes. "Only one reason among so very many," she says.

. . . . . . . . .

_**A/N**__ – I want to apologize. Because this is Thanksgiving week in the US I haven't had time to both write and respond to all the reviews since I last posted (and I really do try to respond personally to every logged-in review; guest reviews, obviously, are more difficult to manage.) I promise that next week I'll respond to everyone who took the time to offer me feedback for both the last chapter and this chapter. I do very much appreciate the time people take to review._


	29. Tomorrow & Tomorrow & Tomorrow

The morning owl comes bearing both a small package and a note. Æthel opens the package from her Aunt 'Mione first, feigning nonchalance. She's already become adept at dormitory politics and too much enthusiasm is asking the resident mean girl to abscond with whatever you treasure. She could have hexed the girl, or physically beaten her senseless for that matter, but she's been quietly cautioned by 'Lord Nott' to stay in the shadows and avoid attention. "You'll be a star your whole life, princess," he'd said. "Play it cool and find out who your real friends are while you still can."

She is considering having a box of trick chocolates sent to another girl, one she'll warn to gush at the table without sampling any. Watching Little Miss Mean steal the chocolates, gloat about it, then be violently ill or turn colors or swell up like a puffer fish, these are all delightful possibilities. The only problem is she'll have to buy the things the next time she's home and then repackage the chocolates so they aren't obviously from the Weasleys as _everything_ from that shop is immediately confiscated. She wonders, briefly, if Uncle Draco would agree to mail to them her; she's fairly sure her own father will refuse. If Uncle Draco won't she knows Aunt 'Mione will; "You won't get caught?" is all she'd say, eyebrows raised.

Almost all her new family had given her some variation of "Don't get caught" as their advice before she'd left. That and, "no one likes a braggart." Growing up in an orphanage, she really hadn't needed to be told any of that but it was good advice all the same so she didn't gloat about her connections to the powerful players in the political arena, didn't name drop.

She sure as hell didn't admit she'd heard her Aunt Mione telling her Dad to start teaching her the Dark Arts as soon as it was practical. That, Æthel thought, was unlikely to go over well at a school that still only taught Defense against such arts. Even Slytherin house was skittish about being too closely associated with the Dark after the last war. "Contrary to popular belief, this is not a house for Dark wizards and witches," their Head of House had said the first night. Ethel had looked properly solemn and intimidated while thinking, "Idiot." She can't wait for lessons on stuff more interesting than turning needles to matchsticks.

Now she unwraps the newest book Aunt Mione has sent her and hides her smile to try to prevent her would-be tormenter from noticing it. _The Witch of Blackbird Pond_: Muggles had the best books. She supposes it must be some kind of compensation for having no magic. Alas, her least favorite roommate is paying attention this morning and she can't just read the thing in peace.

"Another Muggle book? Merlin, I'd be embarrassed to get trash like that." The girl pauses before adding maliciously, "but I guess your aunt's a mudblood so she doesn't know any better."

Æthel tucks the book into her bag without saying anything then simply stares at the girl with the same unblinking gaze that so unnerved Ron Weasley. She's definitely going to buy those chocolates next time she's home; if she tells Uncle Draco what this girl just called Aunt 'Mione he'll definitely mail them for her.

"You're an embarrassment," a third year drawls and Æthel looks over at her with a sharp turn of her head only to find the girl looking not at her but at her little problem. "You should have been sorted into Gryffindor given that you seem to be both brainless _and_ mean."

The girl tosses her head and says with what Narcissa Malfoy would have deemed a vulgar snort, "She's getting mudblood presents; she doesn't belong in our House."

"Uh huh," the older girl says. "Definitely Gryffindor." A cruel snicker runs up and down the table; there's really no worse insult for them. A Ravenclaw might be clever, and no one denied Hufflepuffs were nice, but the vicious inter-house rivalry ensured that no Slytherin would ever admit anything good about a Gryffindor. Not very bright, was the general consensus, and far too obvious to be respected.

"Her aunt IS a filthy mudblood," her little tormenter continues, still pushing, not seeing the tide of opinion has turned against her. "It's carved right on her arm."

"It is." Æthel shrugs. "Of course, I could carve 'clever' on your arm. It wouldn't make it true."

The students near enough to overhear her laugh loudly enough to earn a quick glare from their Head of House. Mealtimes are supposed to be decorous; consider it, their Head had suggested, a lesson in keeping your malice subtle enough to not attract attention. The third year girl smiles at Æthel and they both quietly assess each other; political alliances start young.

Æthel opens another piece of mail and frowns.

"What is it?"

"Someone sent me something from _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_. It's just a notice of confiscation."

"Weird."

It is weird, Æthel thinks. There's no one in her life who would send her something from that shop and, even if someone _did_ decide to send her a random present, everyone who cares about her is smart enough to know to repackage _Wizard Wheezes_. Very weird.

With a shrug she dismisses the random, confiscated gift, pulls the juice pitcher forward and starts getting her breakfast.

. . . . . . . . . .

Narcissa looks around the nursery with approval. "I still think," she says, straightening books that had made the mistake of lounging dissolutely against one another in her presence, "that you should move to the Manor, especially with all the work you two are putting into renovating that room in the dungeon."

Hermione has decorated the room almost wholly in shades of grey and silver, with a blue ceiling that mimicked the color of the sky right before the world sank into darkness. Enchanted stars begin to glow whenever the ambient light drops and two spiral galaxies slowly approach one another from different corners. If Hermione has timed that spell correctly they'll intersect near the child's sixteenth birthday.

Draco had dared her to create a spell more complex than the Quidditch players flying around the walls of his own childhood playroom. The players eternally cycled through the same game; she'd asked how long the time loop ran and when he'd said, "one week" she'd scoffed at him. "One week," she'd said. "You want me to do something more difficult than a measly one-week decoration spell? That's almost insulting."

She'd yet to tell him she'd worked a nova into the sky that should go off in six years or so, or that the stars actually rotated across the ceiling with the seasons. That might have been rubbing her victory in; she also thinks it might be more satisfying to say, casually, years from now, "Oh, that? Yes, I put that in back when we first decorated the room." After a childhood spent with people who hadn't understood - hadn't been capable of understanding - how far beyond them she was, she doesn't think she'll ever tire of Draco's ability to actually appreciate her work. It's not that he's effusive in his praise because he's not. Still, that casually raised eyebrow combined with his small nod and smile mean more than any of Ron's exclamations of her brilliance ever could have because this man, this husband of hers, understands what she's done. It's nice, finally, to have an audience that gets it.

"Well," Hermione looks away from the sky she'd created and returns her attention to the aristocratic woman before her. "I was tortured in the Manor." Hermione has grown tired of this discussion, had, indeed, been tired of it for several months now. "By your sister. The place has what one might call bad memories for me."

Narcissa shrugs. "Bella was impulsive and sadistic; everyone has flaws. I'm sure, as time goes on, you'll find that some of your followers are less easy to control than others."

"And some need to be let off the leash now and then," Hermione nods. "Nevertheless, we like the flat and, really, this is only one baby. There's plenty of room."

"But there's no room for a live-in nanny," Narcissa objects. "How do you think you'll be able to handle being Minister without child care help? You'll see. You'll be at the Manor within two months."

"Being in the City has a number of benefits," Hermione demurs again. Again. Merlin, Narcissa is relentless in her quest to have her grandchild living in her own home. Now Hermione knows where Draco gets his annoying persistence. "It's easy to meet with people, easy to keep a sense of what's happening. And the work commute will be easier."

"Mmm. You're a witch; commutes aren't an issue for you." Narcissa admires the room again, quite certain she's right and that time will result in her getting what she wants. "I like the way you've done this. The constellation theme is delightful."

"It seemed fitting," Hermione says, thinking of the star names guide Narcissa had given her almost as soon as they'd told her about the pregnancy. She'd highlighted names she thought were especially lovely for children, and the most annoying thing about the entire situation was that Hermione found herself agreeing with the other woman's choices.

Draco walks in and brushes his lips inches from Narcissa's cheek. "Mother," he smiles, then takes Hermione's hand and kisses her fingertips. "I've missed you, love. All plotting and no play these days, it seems."

"How goes the plotting?" Narcissa settles onto the pale grey settee and eyes both of the children standing before her. "I've enjoyed watching your inner circle slowly realize the truth about your absurd origin fable."

Draco frowns as Hermione lowers herself down to the matching chair. "It's true," she says, rubbing a bit at her lower back, "though I blush to admit it. I'm not actually Nimue reborn."

"Clever girl," Narcissa says. "Theo's implied adoption of you was a particularly lovely touch. You almost had me fooled for a while. Rather like that plain little Parkinson girl - she certainly doesn't resemble Eustacia, poor thing - I thought neither of you boys would really take a woman in who wasn't -." She hesitates and Hermione smiles blandly at her and waits for the woman to finish her sentence.

"And Blaise, of course," Narcissa continues on. "Not a fool and more than a bit of a pureblood elitist, yet his devotion to you is unmistakable and clearly unfeigned. It's impressive, really, what you've done."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're getting at, mother," Draco says, still standing before both women. "I must be entering my dotage; you're going to have to be more explicit."

Narcissa ignores him. "Both Greengrass girls, unless I'm quite mistaken, have figured it out; their parents are tiresome, of course, but they are both delightful young women and, with careful handling, young Greg will be an excellent ally as well. I, of course, look forward to meeting my grandchild, newest Heir to the House of Malfoy and I would be most irate with anyone who would even consider suggesting that there had been any... dilution... of the bloodlines."

"Dilution?" Hermione makes a pretty moue and smoothes her hair. "Is it even possible to dilute blood and still have a living person?"

Narcissa and Hermione smile at one another, messages sent and received.

. . . . . . . . . .

"Hi Harry," Luna lowers herself down into the seat at the bookshop, dropping the bag that has her about knitting to the ground and pulling out the blanket she's working on as she examines the man. He's thinner and deep shadows have settled under his eyes. He's holding a scarf Luna recognizes as one of Ginny's, twisting it between his fingers, stopping now and then to smell it.

"I can't remember things," he says without greeting her. "The way she'd smile at me in the morning, and roll her eyes at how messy my hair was, that I remember. But she always said something after that and it's gone. Just gone."

"Ginny?" Luna asks and when Harry nods she says, formulaically, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

She was, too, though more in the abstract way one's sad whenever one hears a former classmate has died, someone one hasn't seen or spoken to in years. It's the kind of idle sadness that makes you stop if you're reading the paper and happen to see an obituary, look up, and say to your spouse, "Did you hear so-and-so has died?" It's not the sharp pang she'd expected to feel, especially since she knows Hermione effectively arranged the woman's death. It's certainly not the aching emptiness Harry is clearly enduring. Ginny hadn't been interested in her school friend after the war, not her weird, unfashionable friend who you simply couldn't take out and trust to not wander off to study the lintels instead of chatting up whatever sycophants Ginny had found. Whatever closeness they'd had had long since dissipated. Still, Luna thinks, I probably should care more that we killed her.

Luna worries, sometimes, that her interest in the revolution Hermione is so tidily engineering and the dark magics she's using to do it have drowned her own moral sense of right and wrong. I am, she thinks to herself, somewhat culpable for the destruction of this man, the savior of our world and once my kind-of friend, and I only feel minor sadness that he got in the way. I wonder what that says about me.

Of course, she'd never been mindlessly nice either and what Hermione is doing, even aside from the regime change Luna wholly supports, is so interesting, so very, very interesting, more interesting than she suspects Hermione even realizes and Luna's fascination with the magic rather outweighs her sympathy for a couple who'd long ago abandoned her as too strange to bother with. Still, Harry does seem like a bit of an unfortunate casualty.

"I loved her," Harry says with simple dignity and Luna nods. "Life isn't fair," he adds.

"No," Luna agrees, letting her hands move in the knitting patterns she's become so comfortable with.

"I like your ring," Harry says, after staring at her hands as they click the needles for a bit.

"Thank you." Luna stops to look at the band. Small sapphires and emeralds alternate; it feels remarkably showy to her but Blaise had pointed out that, in the normal run of things he'd have given a woman a rock big enough to put out someone's eye and she had to compromise and let him give her something that at least sparkled. "Blaise gave it to me."

"You're still with Zabini?" Harry looks like he'd just discovered the milk he'd put in his tea had gone off and Luna laughs.

"You could say that." She admires the ring again before returning to her knitting.

"So," Harry sighs, "you're well and truly with the snakes now?"

"You're drawing lines and creating sides where none exist," Luna shakes her head. "You don't have to..."

"I do." Harry stops her. "Ron's my best mate and he says..."

"Ron's an arse." Luna has no intention of even pretending to like the youngest Weasley boy. "When people listen to him they end up in dark places."

"I'm already in a dark place," Harry says and this time Luna sighs.

"You don't have to stay there, though." She frowns and tries to think of a way to reach him. "Mourn your wife, Harry. Don't play the game right now. The rules aren't what you think; they aren't the same as when we were in school. "

"I always liked to break rules." He gives her a quick flash of the smile she remembered from school, a hint of the charming boy who'd shouldered burdens for them all and it's enough to make her try, again, to save him.

"I'm asking you to stay away from Ron," she says, knowing it won't work. "Let all this go. Go away, go rest in France or Italy. You can't even see all the pieces, Harry. You can't win this."

"You're on their side," he accuses her.

"There are no sides, or there won't be tomorrow, or soon. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow."

"You don't make any sense. You've never made any sense," Harry says bitterly. "Looney Luna."

Luna remembers, then, the moment she'd decided she liked Blaise as more than just a clever tongue attached to a pretty man. It had been when he'd shoved his wand - his actual wand, not a metaphorical wand though there'd been a great deal of shoving of that as well - into her neck and said he thought she was a threat. It had been the first time anyone, any man at least, had seen through the mists in which she tended to wander and realized she wasn't just dotty. Of course, she'd told him afterwards that if he ever did that again she'd emasculate him; it's one thing to be charmed that someone takes you seriously, quite another to encourage violence in a partner. The old taunt of 'Looney Luna' reminds her how much she really doesn't care for being dismissed. She can hear Blaise in her mind: _if I've learned one thing, it's that she's never random._

"Well," she says, packing up her knitting. "I guess I'll go back to playing my pungi. It was good to see you, Harry." She pauses, then adds, "Think about what I've said; consider it, please. If you can. You were, after all, born of woman. No prophecy for you this time."

Harry rolls his eyes at her as she walks away.

. . . . . . . . . . .

"Hermione Granger," Molly Weasley squints down at the woman, frowning at her transformation. Gone was the frizzy haired girl who'd almost panted for approval; she doesn't know this sleek creature sitting here in the orphanage sorting the books.

"Molly," Hermione acknowledges the woman with the barest of nods. "It's Granger-Malfoy, actually, or simply Malfoy. I got married a few months ago. Maybe you heard."

Molly, feeling the brunt of the casual dismissal, stands for a few moments, looking down at this vixen, this harlot who'd abandoned Ron to a life of dissipation and then made the most ridiculous claims about his violence and her blood. Stupid little mudblood, Molly thinks, letting herself use the slur in the privacy of her own mind, look at you, dressed up like some pureblood aristocrat. It doesn't matter what you wear or who you whore yourself out to, you'll never get the smell of dirt off you.

Lady Malfoy, Molly thinks with a sneer, held what looked like a Muggle notebook in her lap and sat making a list of titles as she placed books into one of two piles. No real pureblood would ever use a Muggle notebook, such a pathetic giveaway of her filthy background. "You should pay attention to me, Hermione."

"Why?" Hermione continues flipping through one of the books, frowning at torn pages before putting it into the larger of her piles. "You haven't paid attention to me in years, not since Ron decided he preferred an endless stream of presumably paid companions to my company. I can't imagine what's suddenly so important you can't just sent a note to my secretary."

"I know you killed Ginny," the older woman finally hisses.

Hermione looks up at that and says, "Oh, Molly. I know grief is a terrible thing, but I really don't think you should blame me for all your tragedies. Have you considered seeing a counselor?"

"I don't need a counselor, you bitch," Molly says, feeling goaded by the other woman's obviously false sympathy. "I need you to pay."

At that Hermione stands up, brushing some of the dust off her otherwise immaculate black dress. Her smile chills and Molly takes several steps backwards, only to have Hermione close the distance between them, sauntering forward and putting herself back right at the edge of being too close. "Molly, I don't think you should go about threatening people. Your family is already in such disarray with both Fred and Ginny dead and Ron missing that I'd hate to see them lose time with you if you had to be taken into the Ministry for questioning."

"What do you mean, 'Ron missing'?"

"Oh, that's right," Hermione leans in close to Molly and whispers, "that hasn't happened yet."

Molly looks at her in horror and Hermione laughs. "Let me tell you a few things, Mrs. Molly Weasley. Your name is all over this institution; Kingsley may have diverted the money but you let him use this place to hide it, you, the well-known mother figure. How would you like daily reports in all the papers on how you live, compared to the way these children live? What do the Weasleys eat, while the orphans they vowed to care for suffer? How do the Weasleys dress, while the orphans go about in ratty Muggle cast offs? How do the Weasleys play, while these children are lucky to have a single ball to kick around? Keep bothering me and that's exactly what you'll get. And the beautiful thing, Molly? The thing that makes it so sweet, so utterly perfect? Artistic, even? You did this to yourself. If you'd declined the honor of being on the Board none of this scandal would have attached to you. If you'd ensured these children had a decent environment, actually used the money allotted to this place to care for them? You'd be an untouchable public figure. But that's not what you did. You stole money from children to line your own, tasteless pocket. So, I'd go home if I were you, Molly, and I'd stop blaming other people for everything that goes wrong in my life. These are your own chickens coming home to roost."

"Ron and Harry are going to stop you," the woman whispers, almost hisses, though now unease has replaced the confident fury she'd felt walking into the orphanage's playroom.

"Stop me from what?" Hermione steps back and looks pointedly around at the room, freshly painted thanks to her very own Knights but still institutional and barren. "Running for Minister? Having a baby? Volunteering to replenish this place's library? I doubt it. We'll be holding a public book collection at my next campaign event, taking donations of new children's books. Maybe you'd like to donate some?"

"Stop you from everything," Molly snaps, frustrated.

"Last I heard Harry could barely get out of bed. I doubt he's going to stop me from much of anything." Hermione cocks her head to the side and appears to be considering Harry's plight. "I'll ask Daphne to have some flowers sent over, express my concern for his unfortunate fate and all.

"He's helping Ron; we're going to stop you!" Molly almost stomps her foot; she can't believe how easily this frumpy little nobody of a trollop has reduced her, reduced Molly Weasley _née_ Prewett, to inarticulate sputtering. And how dare she threaten me, Molly thinks; threaten _me_ with the condition of this place. These kids have a roof over their heads and food on their table; who would expect anyone to do more for the spawn of the monsters who waged two wars?

"Well, I'll make a note of that," Hermione says with bored courtesy. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get pack to pulling out the worst of these books. We plan to have a table outside the ministry with these as an exhibit to illustrate the oversight issues while encouraging people to make a donation."

"You can't do that!" Molly exclaims.

"Oh, really?" Hermione settles back down into the child-sized seat at the table, brushing a fleck of peeling paint away. "I think the book drive will be very successful in so many ways."

. . . . . . . . . .

_**A/N: Sorry, it's a long one.**_

_**First, the general comments….**_

_Thank you, everyone, for reading and following along and commenting. Y'all really do make my day._

_I'm thinking I will probably do an "intermezzo" chapter of just Blaise and Luna for all the Bluna lovers as a bit of a break after the election before Hermione moves into governing and am trying to decide how, err, lemony it should be. Suggestions gratefully accepted._

_If you aren't reading Bodyguard of Lies, well, it's so dark it makes this one look like a cheerful picnic and I think you should read it, even if no one likes the version of Theo in that story but me. Plus, of course, the birthday drabble thing (explained in my profile)._

_**Then the citations…**_

_Luna is quoting Macbeth: "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, / Creeps in this petty pace from day to day / To the last syllable of recorded time, / And all our yesterdays have lighted fools / The way to dusty death." V.v._

_Luna refers to Macbeth again with the comment that Harry was born of a woman as Macbeth was told no man born of woman could defeat him. _

_pungi = traditional instrument used in snake charming_

_**Then the thanks for, and some responses to, everyone who was so kind as to review…**_

_Thank you with extra sprinkles and some alcoholic chocolate covered cherries, as always, to the people who take the time to share their thoughts with me. Namely, with some personal responses to people who aren't logged in when they comment: Delancey654, Lady Malfoy, athmsc, my name is mommy, DibbleWife, Jenny Felton (no spoilers on who's going to get it once Ron gets going, sorry), loveroelves, AnnaxVakarian, Pank98, Guest (I'm glad you like the frequent updates), Grovek26, analena, apple77, jadedlady (Molly will get what she's got coming but I'm not sure people will enjoy it and I'm glad you caught my snippy little commentary on US tax policy), muffinz113, ii V I, Honoria Granger, Faebreeze, xXMizz Alex VolturiXx, rosierocks30, the aspiring cynic, Icelynne, EsterC94, Guest (glad to hear I got you hooked), moriah, S Wright, LadiePhoenix007, Naysaykaybay (thank you for the many many reviews – because you don't accept PMs I've never been able to personally thank you), chibi moon baby, Guest (yes, Molly is a bit both blind and vindictive when it comes to her children), Guest (Yeah, gotta love George), hoshiakari7, Guest (Ron will get his, eventually, though maybe not quite as much as you'd like), SimiDemon1994, Casy13, DarkFairy8506, Artemisgodess, ryggrad, tabby2010 (I'm so glad you like it!), Lady Malfoy (Thanks! I'm glad to hear the structure works!), TabBenj (Oh, I'm so glad!), miss Valentin, dutch pottterfan, green-jedi, Danielle (I update about once a week!), Terrence Rogue, Nekobear, Aristocratic Assassin, Beloved Daughter, Lorelai Love Spencer-Meraz, Guest (well, one out of two's not bad), snowleopardluver, TheFantabulousPotterHead, Marion Hood, Booker10, pagyn, kei (I do love Luna and it's so great to see how many other people do too), lakelady8425, dulce-de-leche-go, Ev'rdeen, aeireis, Emmeebee, Dark-D-Knight._


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